Ashes
by RedFeather96
Summary: The war is over and the wizarding world is slowly being rebuilt. But some problems are harder to fix and Ginny Weasley is sinking deeper into darkness. As she tries to forget the ghosts of her past, will one little life change everything?
1. Finding a Spark

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you recognise- they all belong to the lovely JKR. **

"_**Answer me in one word."**_  
><em>-As You Like It<em>, 3.2

When I was in third year, I remember asking my friends what sort of person I was.

I hadn't meant it to be a big deal, but my friends took it upon themselves to come up with a proper answer. They had fun with it, messing about creating a survey, making everyone in our year describe me in one word. They spent days asking everyone, running round to question people in between classes, yelling across the table at dinner, sneaking into other dormitories at night.

Imagining it now, It seems ludicrous. But at the time we found it stupid and funny and it was the sort of thing that we used to do back then before we had anything else to worry about. The five girls in my dormitory recorded every answer on an enchanted piece of parchment and it wasn't until they had all forty two replies that they showed me the list.

They came up with a lot of words. _Bubbly. Fierce. Smiley. Scary. Stupid. Fun. Daring._

I wonder if that really was me, once. I didn't even question it then. It never crossed my mind that there might be something else, something darker underneath. I just accepted that was who I was.

I'm not that person anymore. Looking at me now, the first word that springs to mind is _broken._

They did get one word right though, all those years ago. One word that came up the most. _Fiery._

At the time I laughed at it. Fire was lively, exciting, fun. People gravitate towards fire, because it has a certain light, a spark that nothing else can quite compare to.

I didn't realise, back then, that fire burns. I didn't recognisethat fire is dangerous and destructive and deadly. Or maybe I just didn't care.

Fire is uncontrollable, but sooner or later it will always burn itself out.

* * *

><p>There is always a moment, when I wake up, when I do not know who I am anymore. There is always a moment, when I can pretend that nothing bad has happened to my world.<p>

It's a nice feeling, believing that everything is alright. Believing that all the people I love are still living, still breathing, still smiling. I live for that time.

I lie in my bed, staring at the velvet canopy above me. I'm on the brink of sleep, my thoughts blurred and confused. I vaguely remember my name and my mind drifts to thinking about my family. I try to remember how many brothers I have, I try to remember what my mother looks like, but I'm still dreamy and I can't quite summon the information. A part of my brain seems to block me out and so I don't bother thinking about it anymore, because I'm not sure I'll like what I remember.

I focus instead, on the wooden carvings around my bedposts, examining the intricate swirls, that seem to move like serpents in the half-light. The curtains around me are swaying gently in the breeze, and it's much colder in the dormitory than usual. I exhale slowly and I watch as an icy cloud of air rises above me, drifting and twisting like smoke until it becomes lost in the folds of the canopy. I shiver, and think to myself that Bea must have left the window open again.

There is a niggling doubt in the back of my mind though, and the part of my brain is slowly waking. With it comes a familiar, cruel voice in my head telling me that I am lying to myself. Telling me that Bea did not leave the window open. Bea _could_ not have left the window open, because I saw her hit by a killing curse over a year ago.

I ignore the voice and instead think about getting up to close the window, shut out the wintry air, but I feel so tired and my legs are shaky and weak and I am not even sure if I would have enough strength to cross the room. I am exhausted, but I tell myself I don't remember why.

I notice, for the first time, how still the room seems, how my own quiet breathing is the only sign of life. The quiet is resting heavily on my shoulders and it feels strange and unwelcome. I tense slightly, and strain my ears, listening out for the sounds of the other girls in my dormitory, waiting for the moment when the silence will break. My breathing is speeding up, misting the air in front of me with silver vapours, but the dormitory is still noiseless. Any minute now, I'm sure that Helen's cat will start mewling or Lucy will fidget around and throw off her blankets. Any minute now, I tell myself, as the silence stretches on.

I wait and wait, telling myself that in just a second someone will move, someone will cough, someone will breathe. Telling myself that what I'm thinking couldn't possibly be true. Telling myself that it was just a nightmare. That It couldn't be real because I'm still at Hogwarts, still in my dormitory.

But I know there should be a sound by now, because our dormitory is never this quiet. Because something must be very wrong to make everyone so silent.

And something is very wrong, because I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. Because there is the cruel voice in my head still, telling me that there was a war, and that I have left Hogwarts for good. I stare at the unfamiliar pattern on the velvet curtains of my bed, and I see that they are emerald, not scarlet. I sit up, nearly banging my head on the hard wooden headboard behind me, and I realise that the bedspread is satin and it smells of a stranger.

Something is wrong here, but I still do not open the curtains.

I wait just that little bit longer, because I want to hang on to this time. Because when I open the curtains, my last bit of hope will be gone, and I will have to face the ghosts of my past once more.

I sit in my bed, feeling my heart shuddering, too terrified to reach out and look past the safety of velvet shield. I just sit, breathing in and breathing out. Until finally I have the courage enough to draw back the curtain, and confirm what I already know.

Because I am not in my dormitory and there is nobody here but me.

There are no other girls sleeping here anymore, because I am in a lonely house in London and they are all gone.

There is no cat mewling in this room and there never will be, because it smells too much of dog. Even though no dog lives here now and the only dog that ever did left four years ago.

The breeze is coming from the draughty corridor, not the window I slept by for six years, because there is no window by my bed here, and there is no Bea to open it either. Because the voice was right and Bea will never be coming back.

I can't escape the truth any longer.

* * *

><p>Memories are leaking back to me, like water trickling down a hillside, gathering speed until they are flooding over me, and I feel like I am drowning. I remember the war, and the endless fighting and the way it felt to be so utterly helpless.<p>

I remember walking into the great hall, to find it full of bodies, the people I loved lying row upon row upon row, broken and still, like twisted toy dolls.

I remember everything now, and it is like a weight crushing down on me, until I am struggling to breathe. I am choking and I can't feel anything but the emptiness, the blackness pressing down on my chest. I can see their faces, dancing in front of my eyelids. I hear them murmuring my name, whispering to me, calling me closer. I press my hands over my ears desperately trying to block out the sounds in my head as I feel the panic pull me under. The room is closing in on me, the patterned walls shrinking, until I can't see anything at all. Until my world holds nothing. Nothing but the dark aching hole in my chest and I feel like screaming. I need to get away, go somewhere, anywhere.

I can't stay here.

I slip out of bed, the covers falling back with a thud. It echoes distantly in my head as I stumble out into the corridor. I don't know where I'm going so I just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, breathing in and breathing out, trying not to lose control. I stumble along the empty corridors, my bare feet pattering on the floorboards, drumming a frantic rhythm against the quiet of the house. I go down a staircase, along another corridor, through a maze of forgotten rooms, wondering where my feet are leading me.

I come face to face with a heavy oak door and I rest my forehead against its cool surface, breathing in the smell of the faded paint on the wood. It's comforting to me, and somehow I know I was planning on coming to this place all along, because this is where I always go. I place my hand on the dark black surface to push it open, and I silently stare at how pale my hand seems. It is white and ghostly in the half light, and I hardly believe it belongs to me.

The door scrapes against the floorboards, a loud rasping noise that makes me freeze for a second, because it sounds like breathing. Because listening to that noise reminds me of how it felt. How it felt to see someone struggle to breathe... choking... powerless against the darkest curses. Because just hearing that noise is enough to send me stumbling back to the war and all the terrible memories I have from there. I remember watching Padma Patil choking, rasping while a hooded figure laughed above her. I remember screaming for help and trying desperately to do something myself, when I realised that no-one else was coming.

I think of that terrible night, when we fought for so long, and it is enough to make my blood run cold, and my heart break. I think of the families, of the dead and the missing, thinking how hard it must be for them. Then I realise that _I _am one of the families too. I lost my brother in that war. The grief tightens around my chest and I clench my fists, trying to hold myself together.

I close my eyes for a moment, as the noise of the door scraping fades away, taking the terrible memories with it. I am left with silence and somehow it sounds even louder than the rasping. The cold hole in my chest aches again and I open my eyes, trying to distract myself from the emptiness inside.

* * *

><p>I slip inside the door, and the room is just as I remember it. There is still the same smell in the air, of faded perfume and old parchment. There is still the same rickety furniture and peeling wallpaper. Here I can almost believe that nothing has changed. Here, I can believe that I am fourteen again, spending the holidays in this black house, with my family smiling still, with my friends around me.<p>

I imagine that there is a hippogriff hiding upstairs and that any minute now a grumpy house elf will find me and spit insults at me. I imagine that Hermione and Ron are bickering over something stupid, and that soon Hermione will come storming down the stairs muttering. I pretend that down in the kitchen, Harry is happy once more, talking to his godfather about his parents, listening to stories about their school days. I tell myself that Remus is in the library, lost in a book and that Tonks is standing outside the room, just waiting to burst in and ask me whether I prefer her with green spikes or pink plaits.

Most of all, I imagine my twin brothers, just laughing, grinning at me. George being happy. Fred being_ alive._

And it's perfect until I open my eyes and see the empty room. Because then I know that I'm not in fourth year anymore. I'm eighteen and the war is over and my family is broken beyond repair.

I think back to the memory, searching for some comfort, a snatch of the happiness I felt just a second ago, but I find none. Instead I see that it is made of lies. I see that even all those years ago, my family weren't smiling. My family were gathered around a hospital bed and my friends were silent and scared. Even back then, there was a feeling in the air. Something terrible was coming.

I thought we'd been prepared.

I was wrong. Nothing can ever prepare you.

* * *

><p>I pull my mind away from my recollections and instead look around the familiar room. My gaze travels across the swirling patterned rugs, woven images of dragons and serpents in glinting colours. I see the faded emerald curtains fluttering and I notice that the high window has been left open. A gust of wind blows in a mist of white snowflakes, swirling and spinning with a hypnotic, chaotic beauty. The only light is coming from a flickering street light outside, and the snowflakes shine brightly in the dim glow. They float slowly down onto the wooden floorboards, and little by little melt away, leaving nothing but a silver puddle of ice water. I stare transfixed, at the place where the snowflakes had been, wondering how they could disappear so quickly. Dancing and twirling so solidly one second, gone forever the next.<p>

No two snowflakes are ever the same, I recall. Each one is perfect. So carefully sculpted and with such precise detail, that it can never be replicated.

Rather like a person. No two are ever identical, no matter how similar they appear.

I turn away from the window, unable to look at the pool of water any longer.

Instead I look at the other side of the room, breathing in the memories that this room holds. As always, my eyes are drawn to the imposing tapestry that covers the far wall and my heart catches in my throat. I can't look away. I tiptoe across the room, and run my hands along the cool, silky surface. Stroking the glossy material. It is woven from a thousand sleek strands, the ornate lettering and delicate patterns inky black against the faded background.

I know that it is an evil object. I know that it shows the lives of one of the darkest wizarding families. I should hate it; I know Harry does. He wanted to burn it... but just looking at every delicate, tiny stitch, I know I could never destroy something so perfect.

It is beautiful; and for me that is enough.

I stroke it again, but my hand runs across a sudden hole and I can feel the black scorch marks in the fabric. I jerk my hand back, as if I have been burned, and stare at the spot where it had been, the empty place where a name belongs. I realise that this tapestry is not perfect yet.

I search for my wand, deep in the pockets of the old sweatshirt I am wearing and when I pull it out, the wood feels too heavy in my hands. I place the tip to the hole in the tapestry and watch as the thread begins to heal itself. The curses from so many years ago are weak and dying and so they disappear, as silk grows over the hole, and swirling black letters begin to unfold. I whisper the names as they appear; one next to _Regulus, _anotherunder _Andromeda_, and the others after that. When it is finished, I trace every letter of each name with a finger, memorising the feel of the words, locking them away in my mind. My hands are shaking as I trace the curve of the _S _in _Sirius_, the angles of the _T _after _Nymphadora_, the swiftness of the _L _in _Lupin_.

I remember the faces that belong with the names, and I feel the loss reverberate around my chest. I think of another name, that the tapestry does not show, but that makes my heart ache all the same. I whisper again to myself, repeating the names like a prayer, louder and louder, until I am shouting and my ear drums are ringing.

I whirl away from the tapestry and cross over to the door, gasping for breath. I suddenly want to get away from this room, away from the memories. They are suffocating me now, and the once-sweet taste of forgotten happiness is only reminding me of everything I have already lost.

I push the heavy door aside, and rush through the labyrinth of rooms, down dark corridors, trying to escape from the misery inside me. I run down the stairs, past a row of elf heads watching me sombrely and sadly. Their large glassy eyes stare out at me blindly, milky white in the darkness and I choke back a scream. I run faster, thundering past the portrait, not caring if she screams and I wake Harry by mistake.

I arrive at the bottom of the narrow hallway, undo the locks with trembling hands and throw open the front door. I pause for a moment, taking long gasping lungfuls of the cold air. I look out at the grey street beyond, at the black trees in the park and the eerie silver of the frosted grass. Nothing moves.

I sit down on the doorstep of number twelve, still hidden from the muggle world. The shadows cast by the flickering street lights leer down at me. I am not afraid of shadows though, I am afraid of ghosts.

I remain sitting on the step. In this space I am nothing, invisible.

It does not matter though, because the street is empty and there is no one around to see me. In this moment, the London street is sleeping, lifeless and vacant.

And so I let myself go, let the misery wash over me, in a choking, guttural sound that comes from somewhere deep in my chest. No tears fall and I wonder distantly if I will ever be able to cry about this. Another choking noise bursts from my chest, wracking through my body until I am curled up on the ground, hugging my legs to myself, and rocking slowly. I can't think anymore, I can't feel anything but the loss and the pain and the memories. I stay that way, huddled on the step for hours, until my throat is sore and the sky has lost its stars.

When I am done, I feel exhausted. I slowly sit up, and concentrate on taking deep breaths, trying to calm myself, trying to regain control. I stare above me at the grey clouds. The first rays of winter sun have begun to glare through the haze and I marvel at the way the frost has begun to glitter in the morning light. It seems strange to me that something so ordinarily beautiful can still go on, even when my life feels at its darkest.

Sadness makes my lungs constrict once more and I twirl my wand in my hand, stroking the smooth wood, feeling its power.

* * *

><p>I sit there, alone and watch the frost dance as the day begins to light up the London street. All around me, I can hear the quiet noises of the world waking. A baby crying softly in the next house, cluttering footsteps from a far off alley, the noise of a car starting up two streets away. I am disconnected, far away from all of the noises of everyday life. In my world, there is nothing but the pain and the sound of my own pulse. My single lifeline is the piece of willow in my fist.<p>

I look down at it, uncurling my fingers. The wand is solid and warm in my hand and I think about whispering the words that I know will end all this. _Avada_, I say to myself, trying out the feel of it on my tongue. I say it again, louder, and press my wand against my chest. I murmur the word, again, and again, waiting for the moment when I will finally gather the strength to whisper the other half. _Avada_, I say, waiting. _Avada_.

But I can't do it and I know that I will never be able to complete the words.

Because everytime I hear them, I feel Fred's bright blue eyes watching me. I hear Sirius' barking laugh and see Remus' shy smile. I keep whispering though, because I can't stop. Because my tongue has become caught around the words and they will not leave me alone. _Avada,_ I say, hating the sound of it. _Avada_.

A pair of warm hands close over mine, gently tugging the wand away from my grasp. I look up to see two bright green eyes gazing down at me, a strange mix of pity and sadness mixed there. He gives me a long, searching look but I say nothing. There is nothing I could tell him that would explain how I feel. Nothing that could describe the misery that threatens to overwhelm me.

Harry must see this in my face, because he doesn't bother asking me why I'm sitting alone in the half-light, outside in the middle of winter, holding my wand to my heart. He knows exactly what's wrong, and he knows that there's nothing he can say that will ever make it better. He simply pulls me to my feet and hugs me tightly.

"Your hands are freezing," He tells me, his voice soft and concerned. I do not say anything. I look down at them and they are a ghostly white colour, the knuckles tinged with an ice blue. It occurs to me that they should be hurting, but I didn't even notice that my hands were cold. It somehow didn't seem important. I shrug instead and stare back at Harry, knowing that eventually he will look away.

He does, and I know it's because there is something in my eyes that he cannot bear to see. I know, because I see it in the mirror every day, and I hate it too. I want to tell him all this, but he already knows it and I would be wasting my breath.

"How did you know I was here?" I ask instead and my voice sounds all wrong when I speak, flat and weak and hoarse from screaming.

"Footprints" Harry says, pointing through the door, where I can see two trails of dust-steps. I stare at them for a minute, trying to believe that I really made them. They seem too solid, too real. I shake my head in confusion and Harry puts a hand on my arm.

"Go back to bed," He says, guiding me towards the door. I open my mouth, trying to find the words to explain. To explain that I can't go back in the house. That I can't handle the emptiness and the memories that I will find there. That I can't go back into my room alone.

I turn to stop Harry, to not let him guide me back into the house, where the nightmares of Remus and Colin and Bea and Fred will haunt me.

I spin around, and I am surprised by how close Harry is. I am surprised by the way he is so warm, and how I can hear him breathing and how he is looking at me. His eyes are so full of emotions. _Sadness... pity... confusion... guilt... anger... hurt... _all swirling round, mixed with something I can't recognise_. _And it is all so different to the deadness inside me that I can't help but gasp a little bit. Impulsively, I reach out and kiss him.

When I pull away, he stares at me for a long moment, those green eyes filled with puzzlement. Probably wondering why, when after weeks of hardly speaking, I am suddenly kissing him again.

I can't really explain it myself, so I don't bother trying. All I know is that I feel so numb, so empty right now, and I need to be close to someone. I kiss him again, deeper this time, absorbing everything about him. Memorising the way his hair sticks up at the back and feels soft under my fingers. Taking in the way he tastes of spearmint toothpaste and smells like fresh sea air. I press myself nearer to him, listening to the way I can hear his heart beating.

He kisses me back this time, wrapping his arms around my waist. I lean even closer, sealing the gap between us. I relax just that little bit, because now Harry is holding me together, and I don't have to bear it all myself. His arms around me are strong and solid and I feel safe for the first time in months.

I pull him towards me, into the house, because going inside doesn't matter now, because I have someone to keep the ghosts at bay. I lead him up the stairs, my heart pounding and I can't remember the last time I actually felt something like this. I can't remember the last time I smiled or felt glad or felt _alive_.

But kissing harry, I can almost remember the person I used to be. The person who was bubbly and fun and fierce and all those other things. The person that had a reason to live, because she loved life and she loved Harry.

I kiss him again, overwhelmed with new feelings. This time he pulls away gently and immediately the loss comes sweeping back to fill his place. It hits me hard in the chest, so hard that I reach out for Harry again, pulling him closer. He still resists though, and I feel like I am about to break inside.

I try hard not to feel upset with Harry. I don't want to blame him for this. I am a mess right now, I know and it must be hard for him, trying to cope with the darkness that surrounds me. He is pushing me away, but he would never let me go.

Because at night, when I can't sleep from the nightmares, it is only Harry who comes to find me as I wander the house.

On the good days, when I manage to get dressed and go out, it is Harry I talk to and share secrets with. And on the bad days, when I won't talk at all, when can't even leave the room, it is only Harry who will sit there with me, waiting for the time when I will be able to start living again.

It is always Harry. Because there is no one else who has the time, or who cares enough to look after me. Because my family are too broken and I can't handle being around them anymore.

So I need Harry more than ever now. I can't allow myself to turn away from him too.

I look into his eyes, trying to tell him that I want him to stay. That I need him to kiss me, to remind me what happiness feels like.

I lean in to him, slowly and this time he doesn't pull back. "Are you sure you want this?" He asks, his face inches from mine. I stare at the faint scar on his forehead and trace it with a finger. My mind is spinning and I wonder what he means by the question. It takes me a few moments to realise that I have led him upstairs to his room.

But I know straight away that this is what I want to do.

I don't care if we are being reckless, or stupid. I don't care that I am doing it for all the wrong reasons or that this is the worst time. I simply know that I want Harry.

I silence his questioning with another kiss, and he knows that this is my answer.

The door behind me is pushed open, and we stumble inside, still holding tight onto each other. I don't let go of him, because I can't, because the second I do, this happiness will end.

Instead I pull him closer, until we are lying on the bed and I can hear his pulse racing. I listen to the steady beating, amazed at the way life seems to radiate out of him. I want to capture just a little bit of that energy, take it for myself.

I feel something spark deep inside, but it is weak and feeble and overshadowed by the grief that surrounds me.

I try and concentrate on the spark, as Harry pulls me closer towards him and my mind becomes blurred and confused. All I know is that Harry is near me and I don't feel so alone anymore. It is not perfect, but it is close.

'I love you.' Harry whispers, and I want to say it back. _I love you too. _I think. _I love you._

But the words are too difficult to say outloud, so I do not.

I do love Harry, but not in the same happy, carefree way that I used to. I don't think I ever will again. I have seen too much suffering, lived through too much.

The last few years have changed me, and I can't help but wonder if the fire that used to be inside me has gone out forever.

* * *

><p><strong>AN So, what did you think? This is my first attempt at writing so please don't be too harsh. I would love to get some reviews though, and constructive criticism is always appreciated. Thanks for spending the time to read and please let me know if it's worth continuing. **

**Just to let you know, the time-scale in future chapters may be a bit AU, I know certain events didn't take place until Ginny was older, but it's kind of essential to the plot so I hope you'll forgive me.**

**Shell x**


	2. Approaching Disaster

**Disclaimer: In case you hadn't guessed, I don't own Harry Potter.**

"_**Grief makes one hour ten."**_

_-King Richard I, 1.3_

When I wake up, the view from my bed is all wrong and a feeling of disquiet swoops down on me. The door is not where it should be and the wall paper is a different colour. I stare at it in confusion, trying to work out where I am. My primary instincts are telling me to flee, but there is a familiar cologne smell that makes me relax a little and when I look around I notice large Gryffindor banners covering the wall space. The worry eases a little and I allow myself to breathe properly, but I can't quite ignore the feeling that something is wrong.

I search my mind and the memories of last night come back in a jumbled blur. I remember waking in the darkness and wandering with footsteps of dust. I remember sitting outside for hours among the snowflakes and Harry coming to find me. I remember leading him back through the dim corridors, wanting him to keep the ghosts away. I remember...

I lie, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. I feel so detached from the situation that it is hard to believe the girl last night was really me. Hard to believe that after so many weeks of being so emotionless, could I really have acted that recklessly.

I shake the dazed thoughts from my head and try and concentrate on my current situation. I know that I am in _Siri_...Harry's Room, but I still can't explain the sense of unease. I try and distract myself, staring at the covered wall, when I realise that I recognise the black and white photograph opposite me.

I have only seen it a few times before, since it was stuck to the wall of this room by Sirius years ago and I can count the number of times I have been in here on one hand. I stare at it in confusion, wondering why it seems familiar. Suddenly it clicks into place as I realise that I know the faces smiling out at me through the faded paper.

Instead of a happy feeling however, the people in the picture bring a sharp pang of grief, and as I stare at the image, the loss overcomes any curiosity. I look away after only a few seconds, unable to face the dead for any longer. Unable to bear the stabbing in my chest, Knowing that the laughing teenage Sirius is so carefree and happy, so unaware of his fate. Knowing that while the younger Remus smiles bashfully at me, the real Remus never will again.

I feel the grief grow, thinking of all the others who will never laugh again, and I reach out next to me, seeking comfort, expecting to feel Harry warm and solid by my side.

Instead my fingers grasp empty air.

* * *

><p>Suddenly I am wide awake and I roll over, staring at the empty space, where the only sign of Harry is a soft imprint on the pillow. I hurriedly get out of bed, picking up my clothes from where they are strewn on the floor and pulling on my sweatshirt. I quickly cross to the bathroom, but it's empty and dread bubbles up in my stomach.<p>

I run back through the bedroom, to fling open the door to the corridor outside, praying that I will find Harry walking along towards me, carrying a cup of tea or the morning post.

But the corridor is empty and I feel my lungs contract, cutting off my oxygen supply. I know that I am being irrational. That there is no-one left who wants to hurt Harry. They are all dead or locked up far away in Azkaban.

But there is a part of me that doesn't believe it. A part of me that speaks in a high cold voice, and tells me that it will never be over. That the war is far from finished.

This part of me was born seven years ago. It's the part of me that remembers how powerful and how dangerous _he _is. The part of me that still believes that he come back and find me.

Dark memories fight their way to the front of my mind and I stifle a scream. I run down the stairs and blindly push open doors, searching the rooms for Harry.

I call his name, between gasping choking sobs, although still no tears fall. There is no sound, apart from my own wheezing breaths and instantly hundreds of terrible scenarios flash through my mind.

I am in one of my nightmares and everywhere I turn I imagine Harry's lifeless body, another empty corpse, one more loved one taken from me.

"Harry!" I yell again, listening to my voice echo around the empty house, praying for an answer. The silence is like a death sentence to me and I scream his name again, knowing that if he doesn't respond this time I'll lose control completely.

There is no reply and I can't handle the terror now. Blackness swims in front of my eyes. Distantly, I hear a faint crack and I try to jerk myself back into alertness, fighting the shadows pressing down on me.

Warning bells are sounding in my head. The noise is the sound of apparating.

My mind races; Deatheaters, appearing somewhere in the house, hiding in the dark rooms downstairs, waiting to find me. Bellatrix Lestrange, back from the dead, ready to torture me with stories about how she murdered Bea. Tom himself, coming back to get me, to control me, to force me to betray the rest of my family. My vision is blurry and I can't think straight. I can feel myself shaking from head to foot, but I can't let them get me. I'll fight them this time.

I reach for my wand in my pocket with trembling hand but my fingers clutch at nothingness. My wand is still in the bedroom, a whole floor above. I swallow back a terrified scream as I realise that I am alone, unarmed when attackers are surely coming any second now, because what else could that noise have been? And the darkness is closing in on me and I can feel my knees giving way. I want to fight but I am powerless without a wand and I can hardly even stand now. The panic is taking over and I feel myself fall, my cheek pressing into the cold wooden floor. Someone is screaming. A tortured, raw sound and I realise with a jolt of surprise that it is coming from my own throat. Black spots press over my eyes and the screaming becomes distant and watery. And then there is nothing. Nothing but the darkness and the silence.

My last thought, before I give in to unconsciousness, is that maybe I'll see Fred again.

* * *

><p>When I awake, I am propped upright in a chair. My head is throbbing and my eyelids feel heavy and sluggish to move. I hear myself breathing and I know that I must still be alive because I can feel a tiny hand holding mine. It is too small to be human and I relax slightly, knowing that it could never belong to a deatheater, knowing that it must belong to Kreacher.<p>

_Kreacher._

I remember the cracking noise of apparation, and suddenly it seems blindingly obvious. I feel irrational, absurd, for getting so scared about someone apparating. Something so routine, that I have seen it one hundred times. Something I have done myself.

I feel the frustration build as I recall how I overreacted. Running all over the house looking for Harry. Screaming in a dark corridor. Collapsing at the sight of a house elf.

Yet I can't quite forget the panic. The way it felt knowing that Harry was gone, without telling me. Knowing that the last time he disappeared like that he was hit by a killing curse.

I know that I am overprotective of him. I know that my reactions were out of proportion. But I also know that I would react the same way every time.

Because Harry is everything to me and I don't have much else left to lose.

Worry tangles in my chest as I realise that I still don't know where Harry is. I prise open my eyes, and look around me warily, the presence of deatheaters still at the forefront of my mind, despite all logic.

I am in one of the older rooms of the house, one of the ones that only Kreacher likes to spend time in. I scrutinise my surroundings, trying to work out where I am sitting.

Everything has been polished and cleaned beautifully. The curtains and cushions are dust free and the wooden floor gleams. A tiny bed in the corner shows that this is where the elf likes to sleep.

I could never imagine sleeping in a place like this; even sitting in it now has me feeling restless and uneasy. Everywhere are the subtle signs of Slytherin; serpents engraved into the wooden desk, _toujours_ _pur_ embossed on the silver chandelier, emerald green patterns on the heavy velvet curtains. I spot an ornate dagger hanging framed on the wall opposite and I shudder involuntarily. There is something rust-coloured staining the bottom of the silver blade and I have a funny feeling that the object has been cursed. There is something very dark about it and it is not hard to imagine the days when the Black family carried weapons.

I close my eyes, trying to fight the horrible images of a tall, handsome boy, preying on muggles. Trying to remind myself that it is all in the past. That nothing like that will ever happen again.

I open my eyes again and finally recognise the room as Orion's study. There is a large portrait of a sinister looking man hanging above the wooden desk. The grief twists into a hard knot in my stomach as I study the painting. I can't ignore the way he is looking at me; because even though his mouth is warped into a bitter frown, something in his eyes reminds me too much of Sirius.

I turn away, and I jump a little as I find myself looking straight into the large shining eyes of the House elf. They are swimming with pity and another emotion that I don't recognise. I look away from his gaze, vaguely wondering why he brought me here, when it would have been just as easy to take me back to my own room, or to Harry's.

There is a part of me that wants to ask Kreacher why he likes _this_ room. A part of me that wants to find out why he is content in such a gloomy and lonely place.

But I say nothing. Kreacher has his own grief and this room is full of memories that I will never share.

I am the one person that should understand that.

The tapestry room is my memorial, this place is Kreacher's.

Everyone has their sanctuary. I won't ruin that.

* * *

><p>I sit for a while, in silence, feeling Kreacher watching me, waiting to know if I am alright. It is beginning to bother me, and I want him to say something, anything, to break this quiet. I want to tell him that he can stop waiting, that I am fine. Or rather that I am not fine, but that there is nothing he can do that will fix a broken spirit.<p>

I am growing more and more impatient with the still. I wanted to respect Kreacher's space, but I need to find Harry and I can't just sit here, in this room, with an elf full of pity and a portrait with a dead man's eyes.

I have to leave _now_.

* * *

><p>I try to tell this to Kreacher, but my voice is rusty and all that comes out is a strangled croak, loud as a gunshot in the silence. Immediately the house elf gasps and springs to life, as though my single wheezing response has restarted his heartbeat. He begins to fuss about me, the pity and sadness gone from his eyes, a new surprised relief powering his every action.<p>

He holds a glass of water in front of my face, mumbling quietly to himself, absentmindedly stroking his locket with one long grey finger. He props up pillows behind me, smoothing the moth eaten blanket that he has covered me with.

I take the water, and nearly choke again at the icy temperature. Kreacher begins patting me on the back desperately, sweeping my tangled hair out of my eyes.

He is too close to me now, and somehow this kindness is worse than the pity.

I lean away, uncomfortable with his proximity.

"I'm fine." I state and inside I flinch at how cold my voice sounds.

I stand up, pushing the blanket off me. My head spins and I grab the arm rest of the chair, holding myself upright. Kreacher gives a startled shriek and reaches out to steady me. I ignore his squeaked protests to sit down and instead turn to the door.

"I said I'm fine." I growl, ignoring the rational part of me that says that this is not Kreacher's fault. That this is my problem not his.

"Where's Harry?" I ask him, my voice retaining the harsh commanding tone until the last syllable of his name, when it cracks and the desperation I'm feeling leaks through.

"Master is coming home soon, Miss." Kreacher squawks shrilly, still tugging on my arm, trying to get me to sit down.

"He will be back any moment now, because Kreacher is telling him, Kreacher is saying that Miss has had a fall and Kreacher knows that Miss is needing him, because she is saying his name." He pulls on my sleeve again, and this time I let him lead me back to the armchair.

" Kreacher is sorry Miss, he did not realise that his apparating would be so frightful. Kreacher is promising to himself never to apparate again, Miss. Kreacher will walk one thousand miles without magic if Miss wishes."

I shake my head and sit down soundlessly, feeling ashamed of myself for snapping at Kreacher. I give him an awkward pat on the arm, trying to tell him that I'm sorry, that I didn't mean any of it.

Kreacher seems to accept this wordless apology, so we sit together in silence, the harsh cold tone of my voice still echoing around my head, filling me with guilt. And all the while I tell myself that Harry will be back soon.

_Any_ _moment_ _now_, Kreacher had said. I rest my head in my hands and count the seconds by. Whispering the numbers to myself, marking out the time until Harry's return. At one point, when I am at around fifty, I almost think I can hear a tiny voice counting along with me. It is reassuring and gratitude and amazement wells up in my chest, momentarily dulling the grief. But the voice is so quiet that I am not sure if I even heard it at all, and when I look Kreacher is staring resolutely at Orion, not meeting my gaze.

After two hundred and twelve seconds I hear a door slam far below us. The numbers stumble in my throat and I freeze, waiting for another sound, another movement to reassure me that there really is someone here. That Harry could really be back safe.

I hear gentle footsteps climbing the stairs and I want to run out of the room, to end this waiting game and confront whoever is coming. But I don't think I could bear the disappointment of finding an empty corridor, or it being anyone other than Harry.

So instead I stay trapped in the chair, staring at the panelled door in the corner of the room, just waiting for the moment when the handle will turn.

I hear the footfalls pause outside the door.

"Gin?" a soft voice calls and I imagine Harry peering around the empty corridor, his brow crinkling in confusion as he wonders where we could be.

I try to call out, to tell him that I am here, that I am waiting, just out of sight. But my brain has forgotten how to form words and the syllables tangle in my throat, the sounds dying on my tongue.

* * *

><p>So Kreacher calls out instead and I hear Harry push open the door tentatively, the wooden hinges creaking slowly.<p>

I see his face peer around the door, a mask of concern and worry. His hair is messy, and I can tell that he has been running his hands through it like he does when he is upset. My conscience twinges slightly and I feel bad for putting him through all this.

But I can't hold myself back any longer, and I barely have time to take in his crumbled ministry robes or the bags clutched in one hand before I have thrown myself at him, choking with relief.

He stumbles a little and I hear the boxes c latter to the floor as he reaches both arms up to steady me. Kreacher immediately scurries forwards, grabbing the boxes and leaving the room soundlessly. I want to thank him for looking after me, but my mind is still reeling and I need to stay close to Harry.

He mumbles my name into my hair and I clutch him tighter, never wanting to let go of him again.

"I'm so sorry." He whispers, hugging me back. "I didn't think about... I didn't realise... you waking up alone... me gone..." His voice trails off and he sounds so broken, so tired that suddenly I am the one comfortinghim. I pull him closer, rubbing reassuring circles on his back, mumbling quiet meaningless words.

"I thought that something had changed..." He murmurs and I feel even guiltier. After last night, of course Harry would think that something had changed in me. Of course he would think that I was recovering. It would be only natural to assume that it was my way of showing that I am ready to live again.

"I'm sorry" I mumble, unable to look in his eyes. Instead I bury my face in his cloak. "It's my fault, not yours." I say, the words coming out muffled and distorted by the fabric. Harry seems to understand their meaning though, because he pulls back, lifting my chin with a finger and fixing me with a long stare.

"I shouldn't have left without telling you." He says more firmly, the earlier misery almost invisible in his voice. He gives me a short kiss and I manage a weak smile back. I know I don't deserve someone as good as Harry, but I can't imagine how I would survive without him.

"You know I'd never leave you, right?" he asks, and I wonder how he can guess what I am thinking so well. He strokes my hair, waiting for an answer.

I don't reply, because I don't know what to say. I only lean closer against him.

"I promise I never will." He says determinedly and his voice carries more force now.

I flinch at the statement. I want to tell him that he can never promise that. That one day he will almost certainly be taken from me.

I want to tell him that Fred didn't want to leave either. That Bea promised she would stay by my side throughout the war. That Remus and Tonks never would have left Teddy if they'd been given any kind of choice.

I want to tell him not to make promises that he can never keep.

But I say nothing once more, I simply nod my head, because if Harry wants to believe that his promise is true, I am not going to stop him.

He sighs with relief and pulls me close. I bury my face in his robes once more, breathing in the smell of him, trying to convince myself having Harry with me now is enough.

Trying to believe that I have no right to ask for more. That just knowing he would never leave willingly should reassure me.

Persuading myself that having Harry for just one more day, one more week, one more year, will be plenty.

Even if I know that I can't live without him.

* * *

><p>We don't break apart until there is another slam of a door downstairs and Ron's voice calls out, breaking the moment.<p>

I feel my face crease into a frown and Harry mutters quietly. I didn't realise Ron was coming and his arrival sets me on edge. We haven't talked properly since the war ended and I don't intend to start now. _Especially_ not now_._

I know I should try and fix things, but I can't help but blame him. He watched Fred die.

He had a wand in his hand and he did nothing.

Somehow it is different with Ron than with Harry and Hermione. I don't know why, I just know that family are meant to look after each other and Ron didn't.

I guess none of my family have done that properly.

* * *

><p>Ron's voice calls out again, and the grief stabs me hard in the chest. I bite back the misery and anger and turn to Harry instead, trying to mask the pain I feel.<p>

"What's going on?" I ask him, knowing that I probably will not like the answer. "Why is my brother here?"

Harry winces slightly at the contempt covering the word brother but I ignore it, and simply wait for an answer.

"Sorry, I forgot." Harry tells me, stroking my cheek softly, trying to placate me. I Instinctively want to lean into his touch, but there is something in his voice that makes me tense a little more.

"Forgot what?" I ask, my voice a little cooler now, because I have a feeling that he didn't forget at all.

"Your family are coming to lunch." He says quietly and I recognise the inflection in his tone as guilt. This confirms my earlier suspicions and it is like a punch to my stomach. What's worse is that I know that Harry remembered perfectly well that my family were coming. He simply chose not to tell me.

Dread swirls around in my chest and I feel sick inside with worry at the thought of spending hours with my family.

I can't take that right now, but I am not upset with Harry.

I can't blame him for not telling me, because I didn't really leave him any alternatives.

Because, each time my family come to visit, I leave the house.

I _have _to.

Because I love my family, but I can't spend time with them anymore.

I can't look into Mum's haunted eyes, or listen to Dad talk in that dead, tired voice. I can't listen to Bill or Charlie trying to lighten the mood, because that was Fred's job and now any laughter comes out strained and forced. I can't look at Ron or Percy, because I blame them, for being there, for doing nothing.

And George. How can I look at him, when every time I do, I see Fred's face staring back at me?

* * *

><p>Harry knows this, but he doesn't understand it.<p>

So each time, I go to Luna's, because she does understand. Because I need to escape from reality and with Luna, truth doesn't matter so much, and I can pretend that whatever I like.

I can pretend that I still have six brothers. I can pretend that we are all happy. I can pretend that there never was a war, that Bea never died, that Tom never existed.

With Luna, I can forget for a while, because she understands that I want, so much, to forget everything.

* * *

><p>But today Harry won't let me, and I know that I have no choice but to stay here and confront the harsh truth.<p>

"Go and get ready." He tells me and I sigh. I want to be angry with him, but I can't be. The sadness in his eyes reminds me too much that he wants what's best for me. He wants to help me overcome this.

I just wish he could see how disastrous this day could be.

"Go on," He says again, turning me around gently and leading me to the door. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

I want to scream at him that I can't do this, that I won't do this.

I want to tell him that I'm not ready to face my family, that I won't be able to bear it.

But I simply shrug and turn to the door, because I don't have the energy or the heart to tell the truth any longer.

* * *

><p>We walk down the corridor together, Harry supporting me like I am an invalid, with some incurable disease. It doesn't bother me, because I <em>do <em>feel like I'm dying. Slowly falling apart from the inside out.

Absentmindedly, I wonder if there is a cure for grief, or whether it simply eats away at you, until you are only a shell of the person you used to be.

I wonder how long it would take for the grief to completely consume me and whether I have any way of stopping it.

I wonder if there is a way to recover, whether there is a way to fix a shattered heart, or if you simply have to hope it doesn't get too damaged in the first place.

I don't say any of this out loud because I know Harry would be horrified, and because secretly, I think I'm broken beyond any remedy.

* * *

><p>We separate at the foot of the stairs. Harry guides me upwards, towards my room. I clutch the banister and turn, facing him, wanting some kind of reassurance, some kind of comfort.<p>

"I'll only be a second away." Harry says, softly, but he has chosen the wrong words.

"Or two hundred and twelve." I whisper back, to looking him straight in the eye, my face impassive. He flinches slightly at the meaning and I wonder what made me say it. Wonder why I am pushing away the person I need most.

"I didn't mean it." I whisper, my voice still emotionless. I want to take it back, but I know, more than anyone, that the past can never be changed.

The words hang in the silence, drawing all the warmth from the air.

So I simply turn back up the stairs. I give him a clumsy pat on the arm as I pass, and wish I was a better person.

**A/N: I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. It was originally going to be combined with the next chapter, but it was taking quite a long time to do, and I didn't want to wait too long between updates. Thanks so much to my lovely reviewers, it really means such a lot to me and I would love to hear what you think of this chapter. I'm not very good at writing dialogue, but I gave it my all and hopefully I'll improve with practice! Thanks again for reading and please review!**

**Shell x**


	3. Memories

**Disclaimer: For those of you who haven't realised; I am not JK Rowling, I have simply borrowed some of her characters.**

"_**No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."**__  
><em>_- A Grief Observed, C. S. Lewis_

My feet tread soundlessly on the icy tiles and I reach out a shaking hand to twist the serpent taps. I hear the pipes clanking in the walls, groaning and banging until finally, water begins to spurt out from the silver showerhead in erratic jets and I step cautiously into the spray.

It is too hot, but I don't change the temperature. Instead I let the boiling drops course down my back, burning my skin. The water feels acidic, scorching pinpricks falling all over my body.

I step back a little, until only my arm is under the searing flow and then I wait, watching as the heat turns the flesh on my arm a soft stinging pink. For a few seconds, I hold it there, marvelling at how alive the pain makes me feel. Marvelling at how it feels to feel _something, anything _compared to the emptiness and loss.

I turn the water up hotter, the steam clouding my vision so that I can see nothing but a white misty fog, blurring my reality. I breathe it in deeply, feeling the heat rising in my lungs. The pain in my arm grows, stronger and stronger until it blocks out everything else, and I can't even remember the grief. After just a minute, my skin has turned red raw, and I pull my arm out of the stream of water, staring at it transfixed as I see the blood blister red beneath the surface.

Slowly, before my very eyes, the life fades from my skin, the scarlet turning back to corpse white, the pain disappearing with it, leaving my arm with only a few tiny blisters, and my heart feeling dead and empty once more.

I sigh to myself, as the grief returns, replacing the pain with a gaping misery. The hollowness in my chest grows, building until I can feel nothing but loss, reverberating around inside my rib cage.

I turn up the force of the shower, until the water is thundering and roaring, blocking out the bleak thoughts in my head. The pounding of the shower drowning out the high cold voice that whispers to me. Covering up the memories of Bea, of her honey-coloured voice talking to me. Obscuring the sound of Fred's cheerful laughter and Bellatrix's screamed curses.

Each drop hits the floor with a crack like a bullet, each one drowning out the memories, until I am alone with the grief.

I turn off the hot water completely, until the droplets feel like ice and my hands turn blue instead. And then I wait, frozen to the bone, for the stream of water to wash away the misery.

After ten minutes, I can feel nothing in my fingers, and there is a tingling numbness that spreads all over my body.

But the chasm in my chest still aches and I give up waiting. Instead I step out of the shower, my heart heavy as lead, the faces of the dead returning to hover behind my eyelids.

* * *

><p>I stare at myself in the cracked silver mirror on the bathroom wall and I do not recognise my reflection.<p>

The logical part of my brain is telling me that I am looking at myself. Telling me that the person behind the glass _is_ me. That it _must _be me.

But when I stare at myself, I am looking at a stranger.

* * *

><p>The stranger has long, red hair, but the dripping shower water makes it appear darker, almost black.<p>

I run my hands through it, combing out the tangles with my fingers. I try to remember the last time I had it cut.

I can't.

Standing there, straining my memory, I realise that I have forgotten a whole chunk of my life.

I realise I have forgotten how it felt to be normal, how it was to do routine things, to have a life made up of shopping and homework and haircuts.

I have not forgotten the events, the everyday actions- I still remember how I used to help Fred and George hide from Mum, and how I tested out their products even after Percy had forbidden it, just because it sounded like fun.

I still remember how I used to sneak out of Gryffindor tower early in summer, creeping out of the dormitories in darkness with Bea, so that we could go and sit by the lake, to watch the sun rise and talk about nothing.

I still remember how Remus used to pick on me to answer questions, when he first started teaching us Defence against the Dark Arts, and how he would smile proudly whenever I got them right.

I still remember how Dumbledore would always try and tell me a joke, when I walked past him in the corridors, because laughter was always the best medicine he would say.

I still _remember_ all of it, but I have forgotten how it felt.

Looking back is like looking at a stranger's life. I know it must have been nice, but I can't imagine it, I can't _feel _it anymore.

I can't feel _anything_ much anymore_._

Nothing except grief, that is.

* * *

><p>I let my hand drop to my side, and watch as my reflection does the same. I study my face in the glass, searching for something, <em>someone<em> I recognise.

Instead I see huge shadows underneath my eye sockets from lack of sleep. And my eyes themselves are hollow and dark, the skin around them sunken. I search for some emotion in them, some feeling other than emptiness and misery.

I find nothing.

I stare at the rest of my reflection. Taking in the pale, dull skin that shows no life, no vitality at all.

I see every rib, jutting out against my skin, the bones sharp and protruding.

I feel a stab of regret, thinking back to how I used to be, wondering how I became so weak.

I don't remember being this small, or this frail. My reflection looks shrunken, tiny and thin and fragile. Looking at my new self in the mirror, I feel like something inside of me is breaking.

But there is not much of me left to break, and so I simply ignore the pain and carry on as normal. Picking up my toothbrush from the counter and washing the bitter taste of loss from my mouth.

And by the time I have finished, and begun drying my hair slowly with my wand, I have almost forgotten about the girl I used to be.

_Almost._

But maybe there is a part of me that refuses to let go. Maybe there is a part of me that_ cannot_ let go. And as I watch steam billow, turning the ends of my hair back to coppery red, a memory flashes back to me so abruptly that I don't have time to put up the barriers and block it out. I stumble slightly, dropping my wand to the floor and taking deep gasping breaths as I try to fight the recollection.

It overwhelms me though, and suddenly I am back in Gryffindor tower, in another time, another world.

* * *

><p>"<em>Come on!" Bea is squealing, tugging my sleeve excitedly, as I roll my eyes at her. "Please let me. Please." She begs desperately, doing her best innocent smile until I can't help but grin back at her.<em>

"_Is that a yes?" She asks, bouncing up and down with glee, fingering her wand happily._

_I sigh and nod my head resignedly, even though I know that I'll probably regret it._

_I'm usually reasonably strong willed- something that comes from having six older brothers, I guess. But when it comes to Bea, I'm hopeless. Most of the time, I'll go along with anything that makes her smile, no matter how much trouble it brings me, just because when she's happy, it's impossible not to laugh along with her._

_Today, she has decided that she wants to cut my hair for me. It's a typical Bea thing to do and she is determined to do it properly. She forces me into a chair and begins untangling my unruly curls with her wand. _

"_I could do so much with this," She murmurs enviously, twisting it around in her hands, imagining all the possibilities with wide eyes. I wriggle away from her, imagining myself walking into the Great Hall with bright blonde ringlets, or purple dreadlocks, courtesy of Bea._

"_I like my hair how it is." I moan feebly, as she pulls me back into the chair, tutting at me with such a disapproving expression that any complaints I have are momentarily silenced._

"_Nonsense, Ginevra." She says, in a scarily good impression of my mother. I frown at her, although I can't quite hide my laughter. I reach out behind me to whack her on the arm, but she darts around playfully, until I manage to grab her foot, sending her tumbling from the bed, shrieking loudly._

_She clambers back onto my pillow, panting and giggling. I fold my arms stubbornly, but she is having none of it._

"_I'll do it nicely." She promises, and when this doesn't convince me, her voice turns softer, more serious._

"_Just trust me." She says, picking up her wand again and staring me right in the eye._

_And so I do._

* * *

><p>Back in the bathroom at Grimmauld Place, I sit, curled on the floor, panting. The memory was so unexpected, so sudden, that the grief is coming back afresh and I feel like I have just lost Bea all over again.<p>

I take deep, dizzying breaths, choking back the pain and misery. I press my back against the wall, letting my hands drop by my side. I am confused for a moment to find my wand just a few inches from my fingertips, before I remember dropping it in surprise when the memory returned. I pick it up, rolling it around under my fingers, until my heart stops pounding and my breathing returns to normal.

The despair still stabs at me, the ache is still blinding, but as I stand up, my legs shaky, I know what I want to do.

I try and remember the spell that Bea used, gritting my teeth as I try and picture her voice, her mouth saying the words.

"_Persefy_" I whisper, holding my wand tip to my hair and watching as one long curl falls to the floor. Remembering Bea doing the same thing two years ago, her voice full of joy, rather than the despair I hear now.

"Persefy" I murmur again, letting another lock fall, the red colour glinting in the light as each strand lands, falling soundlessly on to the white tiles.

It gives me a sick sense of satisfaction, seeing the bathroom floor covered in wisps of copper. Knowing that my hair was always the one thing that marked me out as a Weasley.

Knowing that it was constant proof that I belong to a broken family. Knowing that it was evidence that I was a _victim_. That it reminded everyone that I am the girl whose brother died.

As if I'll ever need reminding of that.

* * *

><p>I see the colour and it spurs me on, until I am mumbling the charm over and over, watching as my long red hair falls to the floor.<p>

My emotions cloud, until the spell tangles on my tongue and I am mumbling nonsense words. I can't think straight and I sink down against the wall, curling up as Bea's voice laughs happily in my head.

She laughs and laughs, until it becomes crueller, teasing me, taunting me. Laughing louder and louder, growing higher and colder, until it has morphed into the voice of Belllatrix Lestrange, evil and icy and laughing still.

And then the voice belongs to Tom, amused and smiling. Whispering softly in my ear, pretending to care about me while he plans to kill me. Laughing and laughing and laughing.

I hear myself begin to laugh too and it is frightening. I become more hysterical as the laughter grows louder and louder, until I am half-screaming with terror and I can't breathe.

* * *

><p>From a distance, I hear a knock on the door, and I see Hermione peer around.<p>

Her face is distorted and blurred, her words fuzzy, as if I were underwater. I blink at her, watching as the happiness dies in her smile.

"Harry told me to come and find..." She trails off as she takes in the scene.

Red hair glinting like blood on the floor. Me sitting alone. Hands pressed over my ears, to block out the voices of people who should be long dead and gone.

"Oh Ginny..." She murmurs softly and her eyes are full of tears. The laughter in my head fades, and I stare at Hermione blankly, wondering why she is crying, when she didn't even know Bea properly, when she doesn't even understand why I am scared, when she can't hear the voices that taunt me.

"Ginny..." She says softly again, looking at me with such sadness that I want to shout at her.

I want to tell her that _she _has no reason to be miserable. Because her best friends are still alive. Because her family are safe. Because they are all together with nothing to grieve about.

But, I keep quiet, because I know that she must have lost loved ones too, and that she only wants to help me.

She kneels down beside me, watching me cautiously. I turn away from her and stare at the wall instead, unable to look at her tears, when I know that they should be mine.

* * *

><p>I sit still and watch as Hermione busies herself cleaning up the bathroom. She is muttering to herself, and I can tell that she is panicking a little.<p>

She vanishes the coppery strands from the floor, laying a towel over me and using her wand to neaten up the ends of my hair.

"What are you going to wear?" She asks me, slightly breathless. I shrug at her, wondering why that would ever be important.

Doesn't she realise that Bea is dead? That Fred is gone? That my world has ended?

"What are you going to wear?" She repeats, and I try and mumble a response, because it's upsetting her, even if I don't understand why.

"There's a chest of my clothes in there," I tell her, pointing with one hand to the closet across the hall.

Hermione snatches at my arm, and I jerk my hand back in shock, shying away from such close, unanticipated contact. But Hermione does not let go, instead she holds my wrist tightly and stares in dismay at my arm, where the blisters have morphed into cruel red marks, the skin surrounding them pink and sore.

"What did you do?" She breathes, her voice horrified and scared at the same time. I shrug again, because this doesn't seem very important either.

Something in her expression softens a little and as she whispers an incantation, I feel a cool relief from the burn, as if my whole arm were suddenly doused in ice water. I stop trying to wriggle away as Hermione mutters another spell, producing a clean white bandage from the tip of her wand, and wrapping it around, hiding the scalded skin.

"Thank you." I say when she is finished, because I feel like I ought to.

"Don't mention it." She whispers back, with a watery smile, before turning from the room to find my clothes.

* * *

><p>When she is gone, I throw the towel off myself and grab the old sweatshirt from the floor to put on. I push open the bathroom door with my good arm, and go to sit on the bed in my room, waiting for Hermione to find me an outfit.<p>

I sit there, for what feels like hours, wondering what could possibly be taking so long. I am just getting ready to go and look for Hermione, when she walks back into the room, holding a blue dress and a set of pink robes. My heart plummets.

"Those aren't my clothes." I tell her, because they're not.

"They are Ginny." Hermione says concernedly, her face earnest.

"I told you to bring me the clothes from the chest." I tell her, my voice a flat monotone.

Hermione holds out the dress to me, her face crinkling into a frown when I don't take it.

"These are your clothes." She repeats and I shake my head at her, willing her to understand.

* * *

><p>Those are not my clothes anymore.<p>

They belong to the _other _Ginny. The person I used to be. They are dresses from my memories, and it is too painful to even think about wearing them anymore, because I can't bear to remember who I was.

I push away the pink robes, trying not to remember how I wore them to the Yule Ball four years ago. Trying not to remember how I went shopping with Bea to pick them out, or how Fred and George insisted on coming to see them before the dance to ensure that they weren't 'inappropriate'.

I try not to remember how happy my other self used to be, in case I think for a second that I can be like that again. In case I consider forgetting about Bea and Fred and all the others who died fighting.

* * *

><p>"They belong to someone else." I tell Hermione, emotionlessly and push the blue dress back at her as well.<p>

She stares hard at me, still confused. "I saw you wear this a few years ago though." She begins, tugging at the silky fabric of the blue dress, searching her mind for the memory.

I sit and wish that she would stop talking. That she would leave me alone.

"You wore them at your friend's party!" She smiles still looking bewildered; oblivious to the stab of grief the words bring me. "You looked so pretty. Your friend even said so... what was she called again? B..." She stops short, her mouth forming a surprised o, that would have been comic if it wasn't so heartbreaking.

"She's dead isn't she?" Hermione whispers and I look away, unable to answer the terrible question.

Hermione knows all too well what my response means, and she sweeps away the dresses without another word. I think I hear a choking sob as she clicks the door shut behind her.

* * *

><p>She comes back a few minutes later, her eyes red and carrying a new bundle of clothes from the chest. This time I willingly put them on, carefully unfolding my favourite careworn green robes.<p>

I tie up my hair and turn to face Hermione. There is a look of perplexity on her face, and the tears have returned, shimmering in her eyes.

"I've seen these clothes before too..." She mumbles, trying to place the recollection and I wait, tense, praying that she won't work it out.

When she realises, she gasps and I stare at her defiant, daring her to make me change.

"Your friend... Bea...Gin, you can't wear these clothes..." She whispers, the tears trailing down her cheeks now, her face aghast.

I know why she is upset. Harry reacted the same way when he realised I was wearing Bea's clothes.

But I won't change.

Because when I am wearing her favourite robes, I can almost imagine that there is a tiny part of her here with me. I can almost imagine that I am not so alone. That there is still someone else close by me, looking over me.

I stroke the soft fabric, breathing in Bea's smell, of cinnamon and honey and lavender.

Hermione watches me, looking puzzled and distressed at the same time. I wait for her to say something, expecting more protests, expecting for her to try and persuade me to wear something else.

"They suit you." She says after a choking silence, and I force a small smile, grateful that she is letting it go for now.

She comes to sit beside me on the bed, and I move over for her, shuffling up so that I am sitting on the pillow. She grabs my hand, stopping me from shying away any further.

"I'm sorry." She whispers and I shake my head at her.

"Don't be." I say, because this isn't her fault.

"You'll get past this." She tells me, resting her head on my shoulder. I stiffen slightly at the physical contact, unused to being close to anyone but Harry. Hermione feels me tense, and she pulls back, studying me intently. I stare at the wall, the floor, my lap, looking anywhere but at her.

I wait until the last possible moment, until I can avoid her gaze no longer, before finally raising my head to look her straight in the eye.

I try not to see the hurt shimmering there.

"You'll get through this, believe me." She says, softly.

"I can't believe you." I tell her simply, and for once she doesn't argue back, or try to convince me otherwise.

I'm not sure she believes herself either.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, another chapter done! What did everyone think? I know this chapter focuses quite heavily on Bea, and everything is about Ginny right now, but don't worry, I'll be introducing more characters in the next few chapters. I would love some reviews, positive or negative. I really do just want to know what you think of this. Is it worth continuing? I can see that there are quite a lot of readers, but I only have three reviews (thank you so much reviewers :D) so anymore feedback would really be appreciated, otherwise how can I improve as a writer? Thanks for reading and I hope you liked it!**

**Shell x**


	4. A Small Explosion

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Yet.**

"_**Why don't they try to understand?  
>the worst of all are those who say<br>I must accept his death  
>as though his death is acceptable,<br>No!  
>His death is unacceptable!<br>And I will not be comforted!"  
><strong>__-Ann Weems_

I sit alone in my room, waiting for the moment when I will gather the courage to go downstairs.

Waiting and waiting and waiting.

Grief and fear are fluttering around in my chest and I'm on the edge of hysteria. I have a mad urge to laugh. Or maybe I feel like crying. My feelings are too tangled, and I haven't done either for such a long time that I'm not even sure I remember how to.

So I do neither, but instead fiddle with the clasp on my robes, grabbing handfuls of the soft fabric and twisting them under my fingers. Memorising the feel of the material, the shape of the stitching.

It calms me down a little, and the fluttering hysteria dies, the routine numbness settling down again like a heavy blanket.

* * *

><p>I sit there for another ten minutes, waiting and waiting and waiting.<p>

And then I give up, because the courage and determination I need have not come and I know that if I do not go downstairs now, I never will.

I stand up, and cross the room in striding steps, pretending not to notice the way my feet drag. I push open the heavy wooden door, and enter the narrow landing, as any feelings of calm and safety pop like a bubble.

I feel dread whirl around in my chest and It takes a tremendous effort to make myself keep walking down the corridor. To stop myself from running back up to my quiet haven at the top of the house. Or vanishing to the tapestry room, far _far _away from my family.

I walk down the stairs slowly, concentrating on breathing in and breathing out. Putting one foot in front of the other, stair by stair. Trying to ignore the part of me that never wants to reach the bottom.

I can hear the chink of plates, the hushed voices and mumbled conversations floating up the stairs towards me, easily audible in the quiet of the rest of the house. It sets me on edge, and as I reach the bottom of the stairs, the sounds grow steadily louder, until I am in the hallway, tiptoeing past Mrs Black's portrait silently.

I hesitate outside the door to the dining room, dreading the moment when I will have to enter and

I take in a deep breath, bracing myself. The smell of faded flowery perfume giving me both a small strength and a stab of grief.

_You can do this._ she whispers to me, and I sigh in my head because she was always too optimistic.

But I try to hang on to the sound of her voice, her laugh, her quiet smile as I push open the door and slip into the room quietly. Hoping that maybe, she'll get me through this.

* * *

><p>Bea fades from my mind as I take in the long dining room, breathing in the smell of memories and misery. My heart gives a little tug at the gloom surrounding my family, and I watch them from a distance, where the ache of the grief is not too strong.<p>

The dim room has never seemed so big, nor so empty. The long wooden table seats twelve and until now, it has always been too crowded. In distant memories, I remember thirteen of us sitting here, laughing and joking together.

But they are distant, _distant_ memories and looking around me now, it is hard to recognise at all.

There is a shadow hanging over us and the strained, cheery conversations seem out of place. The room is darker than I remember it, and I unsuccessfully try to ignore the empty spaces, where Sirius used to sit, where Fred should be.

* * *

><p>Closest to me I see the adults of my family, although I suppose we are all adults now, even if I don't feel like it.<p>

Bill and Dad are sitting either side of Mum, looking strangely protective. She sits in between them, seeming shrunken and frail, Bill towering over her.

For a moment, she looks up at me, as the door opens and I see the desperate, undisguised hope on her face.

But it vanishes in a split second, her eyes masked by misery once more and I turn away, trying not to notice how _old _she looks. How tired.

* * *

><p>I try to forget the look on her face when she realised that I was not the person she wanted. When she realised that it was the wrong child walking through the door.<p>

I try to block her small figure from my mind, But the old Ginny can't look away, and I can't help but stare at her as I walk to my seat, wondering in the back of my mind if this woman is really my mother.

I try to imagine this stranger teaching me how to feed the chickens or screaming herself hoarse over the state of my muddy clothes. I try to imagine her brewing her own home-remedy potions for when I'm ill, or sorting through my school stuff to make sure I've not forgotten anything. I try to imagine her looking after us all, fighting to protect us, saving me from Lestrange in the battle last summer.

But the mother in my memories does not match this broken woman in front of me and it is a harsh reminder that I am not the only one in mourning.

* * *

><p>The pain in my chest tightens as I watch her, and after only a few seconds I have to wrench my gaze away, because I can't bear to look at her anymore.<p>

I turn instead, to walk round the table to my seat, trying to focus on Charlie with his loud voice and his scruffy robes. Trying to give myself hope, that not _all_ my family is broken.

He is smiling and chatting enthusiastically to Hermione about work. I listen to the words, hearing him talk about his new promotion, a research project going on next year, a co-worker who went travelling last week.

* * *

><p>I try so hard to listen to him, to see him like I used to.<p>

I try to think of the times when he would stick up for me when Percy moaned or how he taught me how to look after Errol.

I try to think of the times when he would listen to me chatter when all the others got fed up, or how he sent me a letter every week the year that all the others went off to Hogwarts.

I try so _so_ hard to make myself think of Charlie as my fun older brother, the one who was always looked out for me. The one that was always away doing exciting things and who had such wonderful stories to tell.

I try to remember him like the _other _Ginny did; brave, funny, concerned.

But he wasn't brave enough to save Remus and Tonks. Not funny enough to replace Fred. Not concerned enough to bother trying to make the grief go away.

He just isn't _enough _anymore.

My memories are clouded by war, and I can't quite remember the Charlie that I _need _him to be. Instead he is only the brother who wasn't there. The brother who arrived too late to save Fred, too late to protect the tens of others who needn't have died.

Too _late_.

* * *

><p>He turns away from talking to Hermione and catches my eye, his smile drooping only a little when he sees the expression on my face. He pats the chair next to him, and I stare in disbelief because it's Sirius's seat and I could never ever sit there.<p>

He smiles again, waiting expectantly for me to sit down at the head of the table, and I wonder how he could ever forget the dead man who used to sit there. The image of him laughing and joking in that place blurs my vision, and I grab onto the chair next to me for support, as I feel myself swaying.

Through my distorted vision I see Charlie's grin break, a guilty realisation clouding his face and I can't help feel a sick satisfaction.

The high cold voice is whispering, telling me that Charlie _should _feel guilty. That he shouldn't be happy and having fun, because Fred will never laugh again, and Sirius will never smile.

The voice whispers to me, and I almost listen to it.

_Almost_.

* * *

><p>But, I catch sight of George, sitting silently next to Hermione and the voice falls quiet.<p>

His eyes are haunted, and he is staring straight ahead at the unfilled place opposite him in a way that makes my heart break. And even the cruel, cold part of me knows that no-one should be suffering like that.

No-one.

* * *

><p>I feel myself crumble just that little bit more, as I watch him. And I sit down in silence, between Dad and George, unable to say anything that would comfort him.<p>

Because however much pain I feel, He must feel a hundred times worse. I may be broken, but he is fractured into a million pieces_, _shattered and crushed and crippled into someone that I no longer recognise_._

He does not move, nor show any indication that someone has just sat next to him. And I do the same, because I have nothing I want to say anymore.

* * *

><p>I turn away from George, My chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor, causing Dad to glance vaguely in my direction.<p>

He opens his mouth, as if about to say something, but he closes it almost instantly. I know that he was ready to ask how I was feeling. Before he realised that my answer wouldn't make anyone feel better.

Instead he stares at me, and I stare at him. I see how his hair is greying. I see how there are lines around his eyes that weren't there before. I see how he is grieving like the rest of us.

But there is a strength in it that Mum lacks, that George can't see. Dad is slowly coming out of the darkness. I see he is recovering.

I don't know what he sees in me, and he doesn't say. Instead he ruffles my hair with one hand, offering a small smile with dead eyes.

After just a moment, his attention wavers, and he turns back to Mum, studying her with concern instead, talking softly to her and waiting as Bill heaps food onto her plate, putting the fork in her hand.

If she notices either of them she doesn't show it.

* * *

><p>I am left, with only Percy staring at me. I avoid his gaze, but I can feel him frowning at me. He looks irritated, and I know he wants to say something about my being late. I stare down at the tablecloth biting my tongue.<p>

He continues to glare, and I want to scream at him, tell him that I don't care about being late anymore, because time just isn't important. Because I have nowhere to be, nothing to do that matters.

But I swallow back the anger, biting my tongue a little harder, until I taste blood, metallic in my mouth. I feel sick, but I say nothing, pulling my chair a little closer to the table, and still determinedly ignoring my brother, punishing him silently for something that happened nearly two years ago.

* * *

><p>Down the other end of the table, I hear chattered conversations, but I don't join in. It all seems irrelevant, unimportant, useless.<p>

I don't care about any of it, but I listen just to give myself something to hear.

I can't really remember what we used to talk about.

School, I suppose, but now that seems pointless, because I never returned for seventh year.

Friends, but that is too painful, because my best friend is dead and I will never replace her.

The Future... but that too is meaningless, because I don't have any plans for the future anymore. Because there is nothing I want to be, nothing I want to do, nothing I _want _anymore.

And there is a part of me that grows angrier with every cheerful word spoken.

Why should Ron have a job, when Bea will never take her NEWTS, and Fred will never run his joke shop again?

Why should Charlie go travelling, when Colin Creevy will never see the world beyond Hogwarts?

Why should I listen to them talk about their plans for the future, when none of us would _have _a future, if Remus had never sacrificed himself, if Sirius had not died fighting for us?

I don't _want _a future. Not when somebody else had to die for it.

* * *

><p>The anger twists and turns in my stomach, so I do not talk about anything, and instead I begin helping myself to food from every dish, clattering with the plates to drown out the sound of Fred's absence.<p>

I pile it high with food, even though I am not remotely hungry, stirring it around with my fork, pouring on gravy and sprinkling salt, just to give my hands something to do.

"This is really good mate," I hear Ron mumble down the table with his mouth full of mashed potato, clapping Harry on the back. I watch as Harry grins, surprised at how unfamiliar the action seems. I can't remember the last time he smiled at me like that.

"It was all Kreacher actually," He says shaking his head, a hint of pride in his voice, "When I told him you were coming he wanted to do something special."

I ignore the stab of jealousy, when I hear that Kreacher knew my family were coming before I did.

"Oi, Kreacher!" Ron yells, and the little elf comes scuttling into the room. Mum, looks up again as he enters, the same blissful hope on her face, but it dies quickly when she sees who it is, and she returns to the one-sided conversation with Bill and Dad with the same defeated air.

Hermione offers a kind 'Hello' to Kreacher and Charlie grins, but George and I say nothing. Kreacher does not reply, but instead offers a tiny bow before stopping beside Ron's chair.

"This is brilliant, mate." I watch Ron say with a grin, gesturing to his plate piled full of roast dinner.

I look down at my own plate and realise I have not tasted any of it. I don't feel like eating, but I remember the shrunken girl in the mirror, and make an effort to take a small mouthful.

The food is piping hot, but it tastes flavourless and ashy, the mashed potato sticking to the back of my throat making it hard to swallow. It mixes with the tangy copper taste on my tongue and I pour a glass of water and gulping it down, trying to wash away the sickly flavour. I see Percy enthusiastically eating opposite me, but the sight makes me feel ill and I put my fork down with a clatter, leaving the rest of my plate untouched.

Charlie glances my way at the noise, but Ron is still chatting away, complementing Kreacher whose wrinkled ugly face is split into a wide grin.

* * *

><p>"Kreacher was working on it almost all morning!" He squeaks happily and Ron grins, but the words sink into the ache in my chest.<p>

_Almost._

I notice the slight hesitation, before the words, and I feel guilty for being the reason for it.

Misery curls in my chest, and I feel a little bit more broken.

But Harry noticed too, and I shake off the wretchedness as I become aware of him studying me with concern. I do my best to ignore his piercing green gaze, because I can't deal with seeing the worry there.

* * *

><p>"Come sit here mate," Ron tells Kreacher, pulling up the empty chair opposite George and grinning. "You can tell 'Mione the recipe!" He mumbles, taking another large bite of his lunch.<p>

My heart twists in my throat and I choke slightly, unable to understand how Ron could possibly let someone else sit in that seat. I hear a low growl next to me, and I see George has his fists clenched so tight that they have gone corpse-white.

"Don't" I say staring at Ron, the words coming out as a croaking whisper. No-one notices me. I have been silent for so long that no one expects me to say anything.

"Don't." I repeat, louder and this time the words carry a little force. Charlie, Harry and Hermione turn to stare at me. Either Ron doesn't hear or he doesn't care.

Kreacher too seems not to hear me and, obliged to follow his order, is dutifully climbing onto the chair, smiling adoringly up at Ron who is busy eating his lunch again. George growls again, and I watch him pull his wand out of his pocket with a trembling hand.

He stands up, his legs shaking and his face pale. Ron continues eating his lunch, oblivious to the tension in the rest of the room.

I know what George is about to do and Tom's high cold voice is in my head once more, telling me to let him hex Ron. Telling me to let Ron be punished. Because there is a part of me that wants very much to see him hurt.

* * *

><p>I watch, fighting an internal battle. I consider saying nothing, keeping silent as always and letting other people act out their lives around me.<p>

But maybe I am tired of doing nothing, or maybe Tom's voice is right and I just want to hurt Ron.

Either way, I am suddenly on my feet next to George, so abruptly that everyone, even Ron and Mum, turn shocked.

"You can't sit there." I say, and my voice is loud and emotionless.

Kreacher hops off the chair immediately, but Ron stares back at me blankly.

"What?" He asks his voice heavy with confusion and anger bubbles up in my mouth.

I pull out my wand and point it at Ron, watching with a grim satisfaction as his confusion turns to panic.

I am vaguely aware of George reaching out for my hand, gripping my fingers tightly in a way that tells me that we are together in this. I distantly hear Dad telling me to sit down, Bill speaking calmly and reasonably, Mum starting to cry. But it all seems unimportant and I can't think of anything but the anger and the grief and the injustice.

How could Ron not understand? How could he forget his own brother? Especially when it was his fault that Fred died in the first place.

His fault.

All his fault.

The anger grows stronger and it makes me feel alive again, the rage taking over until I have almost convinced myself that hexing Ron is the only think that would make me feel better. That hurting Ron is the only way to make the pain disappear.

George grips my hand tighter next to me, and I let out my anger in a sudden burst that I can't control or understand anymore.

"Reducto!"

I hear my voice cold and angry. I hear Hermione scream as Ron is thrown from his chair with a noise like a gunshot. His head hits the back wall with a dull thunk and he falls to the floor unconscious.

* * *

><p>George begins to laugh next to me, a bitter, cruel sound that is so unlike his old laugh that it takes me a moment to recognise it.<p>

I drop his hand suddenly, and stare at him in shock until Harry grabs my other arm, roughly, forcing my wand out of my grip.

He turns my face to look into his eyes and I can't bear to see the disappointment and horror mixed there. _How could you? _His expression screams at me.

_I don't know. _Is my wordless reply, because I can't quite believe it myself.

* * *

><p><em>How could I?<em>

My fury fades, replaced by a blinding panic.

I see Charlie, watching me appalled, his face ashen. George still laughing coldly and quietly next to me. I see Bill and Hermione anxiously bending over Ron, Percy trying to soothe Mum's frantic sobs.

Dad is watching George and me, and the look on his face says that he doesn't recognise either of us.

The guilt and horror grows until I can't take it in anymore, and I run from the room, wriggling out of Harry's grip and thundering up the stairs. Below me, I hear George leave too, still laughing coldly as he slams the front door. I hear Ron groan dazedly and Harry mutter angrily to Charlie. I hear another stifled sob from Mum, and then I run higher up the stairs, to the very top of the house, until I can't hear anything anymore and I don't have to listen to anything but the frantic pounding of my own pulse.

I collapse onto my bed, my breath coming in panicked gasps and I bury my face in my pillow, shaking with grief and anger and misery and _hate_.

I hate the emptiness inside and the high cold voice.

I hate Ron and Charlie and Percy for trying to get on with their lives, for acting like Fred never even existed.

I hate Harry for not understanding and I hate Hermione for not helping.

I hate George for not caring and for being so pitiless, so distant.

I hate myself for being so weak, so angry, so sad.

I hate Fred for going away to fight.

I hate Bea for not looking after herself.

I hate them all for leaving me so alone when I need them so badly.

* * *

><p>I am being consumed by hate, and I hate that too.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I can only offer you endless apologies for this being so late; ****I really wasn't happy with my writing and I wanted to wait a bit to see if I could improve it. Hopefully you'll find that it is tolerable, and if you do like it, or have any constructive criticism, I would love to hear it in a review. Thank you to all those who have already done so, I appreciate it more than I can say.**

**Shell x**


	5. Never Forget

**Disclaimer: Thanks to JKR for allowing me to borrow her characters. Not that I asked. **

"**A man dies ... only a few circles in the water prove that he was ever there.**

**And even they quickly disappear. **

**And when they're gone, he's forgotten, without a trace, as if he'd never even existed. **

**And that's all."**

-_The Outsider, Wolfgang Borchert_

I close my eyes for a split second, and when I open them I am back at the Burrow again. My room has become a hospital ward and I lie in an iron-framed bed, the tight white sheets suffocating around my stomach. I blink blearily against the sunlight streaming from my window, and notice with surprise the eleven anxious faces staring down at me. In the back of my mind the scene seems strangely familiar, but I find it hard to focus, my vision shifting like bad reception.

I stare from Dad, to Percy, to Ron, to Fleur. My whole family is gathered here, and I wonder what has happened, wonder who has died this time to make them look so panicked.

"What's going on?" I ask and my voice sounds like that of a stranger, echoing distantly around the room. I wait for what feels like hours for someone to reply. And I wait, because no matter how much I dread the answer, I can't bear not knowing.

My family pause for a moment, unnaturally still, frozen like a photograph, until my vision shifts again and Mum, who is nearest to me, springs to life, rushing forwards to feel my forehead. Her hands are pale and shaking.

"Thank Merlin you're alright!" She mumbles but she doesn't sound certain and she doesn't answer my question.

"What's going on?" I ask again, my unfamiliar voice piercing the quiet. I look to Harry this time, waiting for an answer. "Why am I here?"

Harry does not respond either and it is Charlie who answers me, with his usual cheerful grin and teasing laugh. "You live here mate!" He chuckles, but there is something strange in his tone and his eyes look worried.

My vision shifts again and I feel myself begin to panic. I want to get out of bed and shake Charlie, scream at Harry to tell me what is happening. But my legs are stuck to the mattress, the sheets growing tighter and tighter around me until I can't breathe.

_I don't live here. _Charlie couldn't be right. I moved out months and months ago, because the rooms of this house are too full of memories. Because I can't turn a corner without expecting to see my brother walking towards me. Because even just lying in this room, I can only remember all the times that Fred was ever in here.

I want to tell this to Charlie, but the words fail me. "I moved out." I say instead, my voice flat.

"As if I'd let you move out!" laughs Mum, but her voice is too high, too shrill and her eyes are scared.

"But...But... after Fred... _died"_ I say, the words painful and bitter on my tongue.

"Things changed...I... It was different then." I stumble, coming to an abrupt silence when I see that the faces staring back at me show no comprehension.

"_Who eez Fred_?" Fleur whispers loudly to Bill and my heart begins to beat faster. " '_as your sister heet 'er 'ead perhaps_?"

A familiar surge of anger builds at her words, but it is quickly replaced by fear when I see that none of my family has answered her. They are all staring blankly at me, waiting for an explanation. I say nothing, unable to believe what is happening before my eyes.

"We don't know anyone called Fred" Hermione murmurs sadly and I gape back at her in shock.

"How can you not remember Fred?" I whisper looking around my family in horror. They avoid my gaze, clearly not knowing what to say.

"I'm sure you're just tired Ginny." Bill prompts kindly but I can't reply.

Mum nods, patting my hair gently, in what's obviously meant to be a reassuring manner.

It does not reassure me. Instead I feel like I am about to die.

"How could you have forgotten your brother?" I say, my voice growing louder. "He was your friend! Your family!"

"This _is_ our family." Ron says bluntly and I look from face to face and see that every one of them believes it.

My eyes fall on George last, and my voice breaks into desperate pleading, because he is my last hope.

"You _must _remember Fred." I mumble and he stares back at me blankly with pity in his eyes.

"There is no Fred." He says quietly and the defeat in his voice feels like a kick to the face.

* * *

><p>"Your <em>family." <em>I whisper, terrified of what is happening before me. Harry strokes my arm comfortingly and I turn to him too accusingly.

"What about _your_ family Harry?" I ask, knowing that my voice is cracking. "What about Sirius?"

Harry stares back vacantly.

"Or Remus?" I try again, but there is no flicker of recognition in his eyes.

"Tonks?" I mumble as the panic builds and my voice grows louder and louder. "Dumbledore! Colin Creevy! Bea!" I scream as the suffocating white bed sheets grow tighter around my stomach.

"We don't know any of those people, Ginny." Hermione says sadly and my vision shifts again. "Maybe you should just rest." She says. "You'll have forgotten it all by morning."

"I don't want to forget!" I try to tell her, but I my eyelids suddenly feel very heavy and my vision is slowly blurring.

"Don't be silly, love." Mum sighs, stroking my hair. "Just forget."

_No. _I think, because even though it would make the pain go away, I don't want to forget them. And yet my lips won't move and no sound comes out when I try to form the words.

I _won't _forget. I think, but my whole body feels as heavy as stone and my mind is slowly fogging.

_Never_. I think but I am sinking into darkness and I can't quite put my finger on what is happening in my head.

I can't see my family anymore and I try to remember what I was so upset about.

_A_ _Brother_? I think.

_A Friend?_

I try to remember their names.

A red haired boy... he was called... Fred?

The friend... the girl... What was her name?

She had blue eyes... didn't she? Or was that someone else?

I try to think, but something in my mind is fading and the memories blur, slipping away even as I think of them. I try to conjure up the sound of their voices, try to remember their faces.

What was the name of my best friend? How old was my brother?

What happened to them?

But if I ever knew the answers, I have forgotten them.

* * *

><p>I wake up with a jolt, and for a moment I lie frozen, staring at the canopy of my bed, feeling my heart shudder. This time there is no moment when I can pretend I am still at Hogwarts, because the nightmare is still too fresh in my mind and I know that I will be offered no escape from the grief.<p>

I look around and see that it is nearly evening. I don't remember falling asleep but the darkening sky tells me I must have, and I wonder vaguely what happened to the rest of my family after I left.

It is only a fleeting thought though, and I do not really care about the answer.

But as much as I don't want to see any of them, there is a fluttering disquiet in that grows every second that I am alone. A whistling flurry of anxiety that I cannot quench, because even as I tell myself, _It was just a dream._ I am not sure that I believe it.

And I need somebody to tell me that it wasn't real, to tell me that they really were alive, that those memories really are true.

I need somebody to convince me that this was not in my mind.

But I am alone in my bedroom, my head spinning with dizziness and confusion. And there is no one there to reassure me as I try to stand up, grabbing onto the bed post for support.

I catch sight of my reflection in the window, a flash of short red hair that screams _Weasley _andthe memory of the nightmare hits me full force again, the blank expressions of my family hovering behind my eyelids until I am trembling from head to foot and I know there is only one place that could make me feel better.

* * *

><p>I leave the room silently, but it is irrelevant, because there is no one nearby to hear me go. I walk along the corridor slowly, feeling my way along the walls in the gloom, until I get to the stairs, where a grimy window is letting in the last feeble rays of sunset. I tread down the stairs slowly, pattering onto the landing a few floors down, like a moth with a broken wing, feeble and frail but determined still.<p>

I see the door at the end of the corridor and I can feel the tapestry room, like a magnetic pull, reeling me closer.

But something is holding me back and I linger on the landing, peering over the banisters at the hallway below. There is something intoxicating about the long drop and I plant my feet in between the wooden rails of the staircase, leaning ever closer over the edge.

My weight pushes one of the railings a little looser, and it comes out of place, splintering forwards with a small jolt. My heart beats a little faster as the broken banister dislodges a small pile of dust, sending it cascading and swirling down into the void below.

I press myself nearer still to the edge, wondering what it would feel like to jump. Tom's voice laughing and whispering to me softly.

I imagine letting go of everything, leaving it all behind and simply falling, flying.

I imagine freedom from this ache. This anger. This loss.

_Do it_. Says Tom. _Jump._

* * *

><p>But new voices whisper with me too, and they are just that little bit louder than the snake in my mind.<p>

I imagine Hermione being hurt and upset. Harry feeling guilty and angry.

I imagine hitting the wooden floor below, blunt and hard and painful.

_You're stronger than that. _Whisper the new voices. Bea and Fred and Tonks.

_Am I? _I wonder.

_It's up to you._ They whisper back in their familiar voices. _It's up to you._

* * *

><p>I make my decision and step away from the edge, shuffling backwards until I'm pressed against the opposite wall, unable to take my eyes off the emptiness. My moment of madness is over, and the harsh reality of falling is clouding my judgement with fear. The hard ground below is calling me and I step back further from the stair rails, pressing myself into the corridor behind, too afraid to go any closer to the oblivion, in case it pulls me in, over the rails and falling into nothingness.<p>

I back down the corridor, still gazing at the edge, fighting with the strange longing and fear inside me.

* * *

><p>I am snapped out of the reverie only by the sound of footsteps, slow and methodical, climbing up the stairs towards me.<p>

I turn down the corridor and press myself into a doorway as, the sounds grow closer and I realise that the person is coming straight to the tapestry room.

I step back further, masking my face in shadow, because whoever is coming will have been at lunch. And after that, I don't want to see anyone.

I hear the steps come nearer still, and I see a silhouette walking towards the door way at the end of the corridor.

* * *

><p>I hold my breath in panic as they pass, but they do not even look in my direction.<p>

I have become an expert at silence, I suppose.

I catch sight of peach robes and curly brown hair as the figure disappears into the tapestry room and I know that it can only be Hermione.

I follow her a few seconds later with whisper light footsteps and a heavy heart, pressing myself close against the door heavy wooden door, straining my ears for a sound of life within.

* * *

><p>Voices flutter and whisper under the door, and although I know I shouldn't, I feel rooted to the floor, unable to leave.<p>

"I thought you might be in here." I hear Hermione murmur, in a sad kind of voice, and I am surprised when it is Harry who answers her.

"I can think here" He replies softly, and a part of me can't help but feel hurt, and wonder why he never told me we had that in common.

I suppose I never asked.

I wrap my arms around myself to hide the emptiness inside, and lean closer to the door instead. Resting my ear against the cool wood. There is no more sound coming from the room, just a heavy silence that feels like loss.

It seems to stretch on forever, until I hear Hermione take a deep breath, before blurting out, "We need to talk."

The words are full of worry, and her voice grows quieter and quieter with every syllable. There is another silence, and awkward pause, and I realise that Harry doesn't want to talk about things any more than I do.

But inevitably, Hermione continues, though her voice lacks confidence and I know that she is probably wringing her hands anxiously on the other side of the door, chewing her hair, biting her lip.

"It's about..." She trails off, but Harry picks up the sentence with a grim determination.

"Ginny." He says in a hollow tone and I ignore the way my stomach twists, because have never heard him speak my name like that before.

I shrink back against the side of the passage way, knowing that this conversation is not meant for my ears, but unable to walk away now.

"You have to do something." Hermione says and her voice is shaking a little. I can hear the misery in her tone, but it hardens into a little fist inside of me.

They can't help me.

I'll never be able to forget.

"I've tried." Harry says, his voice slightly colder. The unfamiliar tone sends a shiver down my spine, and I wonder whether he has begun to hate me too.

I wouldn't blame him.

* * *

><p>There is more silence, and I know that Hermione is struggling for words. "But..." She trembles, her voice wavering uncertainly in the deep silence, like a flickering candle in a whole world of darkness.<p>

"She doesn't listen to me anymore." Harry says and I feel like the candle has gone out. Hermione does not protest, because the truth in Harry's words is evident. I _don't_ listen to anyone anymore, because there is nothing I want to hear.

Nothing but Bea laughing, Fred joking, Remus talking.

But all I hear is Harry's voice, hopeless and low and tired and the silence stretching on and on.

* * *

><p>"Sometimes I think she's getting better." Harry says softly, after a few minutes of quiet. The words are clear in the still, but his voice remains flat and lifeless.<p>

"I mean... last night... last night." I hold my breath, remembering what happened like a distant dream.

He trails off and does not finish the sentence, and I am silently relieved that I do not have to be confronted with the truth.

"She's different now." He says and his voice breaks.

Hermione does not say anything, but I hear the sound of chairs scraping and the swish of robes crossing the room.

The small movement causes a blur of a breeze, and the door swings open just enough for me to see a tiny shimmer of tapestry.

I squint until I make out the names and I immediately search for Sirius and Tonks, wanting to reassure myself that the nightmare wasn't real.

When I locate the familiar slant of the letters, I sigh in relief, but any feelings of happiness are quickly extinguished as I turn back to the situation at hand, peering through the little crack in the door with a bleak resolve. Harry is sitting with his back to me, so that through the slit of the door hinge, I can only see his silhouette, black against the dying glow from the street outside. He is hunched over, his head resting in his hands, and for once he looks just like any other teenager. Not The Boy Who Lived. Not a highly skilled Auror. Not even a wizard.

Just a nineteen year old boy.

It reminds me of our school days a little bit, until I Harry lifts his head in my direction, and I see that his face has aged a thousand years since those memories.

I turn away, because looking at the damage I have done is too much for my aching heart to handle.

* * *

><p>I want to comfort Harry, but I know that I am not the person he needs right now, and I stay hidden, behind the dark wood door, as Hermione sits down beside him, placing an arm round his shoulder. His figure shakes and there is a part of me that longs to be there with them.<p>

But I don't belong with them anymore. And so I just wait outside in the gloomy corridor. Wait for something to happen, something to change, something to move.

When it does, it is with four choking words that make my chest stab.

"I still love her." Harry mumbles and I try to feel happy that someone so kind, so brave is in love with me.

But all I feel is the guilt and the shame and the loss.

Because I do not deserve him, and he doesn't know me anymore.

Because If he knew how cold I was inside, how shadowy, how broken, he wouldn't be so in love.

Because he has earned happiness, after all he has been through, and I don't think I can ever give him that.

* * *

><p>The quiet stretches on, long and lonely and empty. Each of us lost in our thoughts. I see Harry, his fists clenched white, and his face weary. I wonder if we could ever have a future together.<p>

There is a part of me that wants that so badly.

But it is hard to imagine any way to move on from this. Hard to imagine the grief ever ending.

Hermione seems to be thinking the same thing, and I hear her whisper to Harry, in a voice laced with concern.

"You can help her." She says, the tone quiet and feather light, but the meaning of the words weighs heavily in the air.

_She's wrong._ I think, because she doesn't understand what is happening to me.

"At the ministry, there's people she can talk to about this." She murmurs, and I see the sincerity in her eyes when she looks at Harry and I know she truly believes she can help.

Doesn't she understand that no-one can change the past?

* * *

><p>Hermione continues her soft reassurances, talking about places I should go, people I should talk to.<p>

But I do not want to hear anymore and I slip away under the cover of silence and gloom. Hermione and Harry don't notice me go, because they never realised I was there to start with.

My head buzzes with what I have heard as I creep back to my room, with its familiar emerald hangings and dark wallpaper.

I hate this place, but there is a sick comfort in being somewhere so dark. I glance at the cracked mirror on the wall, the old newspaper clippings pasted beside it, making my stomach lurch. I wonder why I don't take them down, why I don't destroy those traces of the evil people from this house.

I suppose, because some days, looking into Lestrange's eyes is reassuring, reminding me that all those deatheaters are _dead_ and _gone_ and _never_ coming back.

Some days, seeing the reports of how Tom was terrorising muggles and half-bloods, reminds me how much better off I am now.

Some days, looking at the faces of my enemies, gives me a little spark, a determination in the mornings to get up and keep fighting, keep rebuilding my life.

* * *

><p>But on other days, like today, their faces only remind me of loss and fear and all the innocents who were killed before Tom was.<p>

Some days, it doesn't give me strength, it just makes me feel helpless and hopeless and useless.

Some days their faces make me wonder if they could ever really be gone, if they aren't just waiting for the right time to come back and fight. On those days I know that we would not win a second war because I am just too _tired_ of fighting.

* * *

><p>And on the very worst days, it makes me feel evil.<p>

Evil. Because there is a part of me that wouldn't mind Lestrange walking and talking still, If only Bea was living and breathing and still fighting at my side.

Evil. because secretly, I wouldn't mind Dolohov being back again, with his cruel eyes and torturing smile, if only Sirius were still here to keep us all going.

Evil. Because deep down I could survive with all those deatheaters alive, Tom included, if only my brother could be back too.

Evil. Evil. Evil. Because I wouldn't really mind the end of the world, If we were all ending it together.

* * *

><p>I turn away from the yellowed newspaper clippings, disgusted at myself for even thinking about that and suddenly I can't even be in this house anymore.<p>

I don't really take the time to think where I am going to go, before I grab my wand from beside me, and cross over the corridor to the closet, searching the trunk for some warm clothes.

I find an old red jumper, emblazoned with the letter F, and hastily pull it on, fastening Bea's dark green travelling cloak over the top.

It looks mismatched and ill-fitting, the colours too bright for my washed out complexion, but the clothes smell of good memories and I breathe it in hungrily, wrapping the material around myself until I am surrounded by the feel of family.

Then I leave the house with a rush of thundered footsteps and a slam of the door. I imagine I hear a voice calling my name, but I disapparate on the doorstep before they can follow, hating myself for leaving, even as I do.

* * *

><p>I watch the world disappear and I feel myself suffocating and twisting, the blackness pressing in on me like a smothering blanket. I can't think where I am going, and I know there is a high chance that I am going to splinch myself as the different locations twirl in my head like a never ending record.<p>

But then I am in a new place, a different street, where the snow is heavier, and the air is freezing and when I recognise it, I know that I am where I should be.

My insides are still churning with guilt and remorse and loss and hate, but I bury them deeper and wrap my cloak tighter around myself, using the small part of Bea as a shield, protecting me from both the cold outside and the misery inside.

Harry's voice echoes around my head as I stride down the cobbled garden path, past a small herb garden and a rather wild looking rose bush.

_She's different now, _I hear as I reach the doorstep of the stone cottage ad knock with determination upon the wood.

Dad's pale face swims in front of my eyes as I stare resolutely at the silvery letter box.

_There's people she can talk to about this._

I hear Charlie cursing in my ears, See Kreachers shining sad eyes.

I see my hair floating, coppery red to the floor and George is laughing, cold and cruel.

I can feel Harry's heartbeat beneath my fingertips and the dust is floating down the staircase.

And Hermione is crying. And there is a flash of green light and Bea is falling, falling, falling to the ground just like the snowflakes.

And Tom's voice whispers and I see ghost eyes stare out from an old newspaper clipping.

I feel the scorch marks in a tapestry and there are rows and rows of dead bodies.

And Mum says, _She's only sixteen_. And I hate it.

And all the thoughts swirl around and around and around.

* * *

><p>Until the door to the little cottage opens and I find myself staring straight into the eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange.<p>

And all the words in my head fall silent.

Silent as the grave.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So as always, any reviews are appreciated, and thank you so much to anyone who already has. As usual, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I can only improve if my lovely readers point out the flaws, so please drop a review with any new plot ideas, grammar points or just general feedback.**

**I would just like to say that it should get more interesting in the next few chapters, so bear with me and watch this space!**

**Shell x**


	6. Trapped

**Disclaimer: If I was JK, I would be busy writing real books. **

"_**She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, like when you're swimming and you want to put your feet down on something solid, but the water's deeper than you think and there's nothing there"  
><strong>__― Julia Gregson, __East of the Sun_

It only takes one look into those dark eyes, until my mind begins screaming and then against all willpower I am rushing backwards, until I am sixteen once more and trapped in the worst memories of my life.

* * *

><p><em>I am running flat out down the staircase and I don't look back. <em>

_In my ears I hear the ringing of Harry's last words- Keep safe. Keep safe. Keep safe._

_But they are empty words, and we both know that I am not listening._

_Again he calls that useless plea- for me to wait. Wait outside the room of requirement. Wait like a good girl. Wait because I am too young, or too weak, or too delicate._

_I'm tired of waiting._

_I have to fight too. And so I ignore Harry, racing down the crumbling corridors, excitement and terror tingling in my veins. It is a strange combination, that makes me feel slightly giddy. As if this can't really be happening. Because it can't be real can it? _

_But there is nothing pretend about the explosions that shake the castle walls, and jets of light are flying around my head with deadly unpredictability. And all the time I can hear people shouting, and screaming and crying. And every voice sounds like my brothers, Tonks, Bea. And a throbbing a question persists like a headache, thundering every inch of my mind with worry and fear and dread._

_Are they still alive? Are they still alive? Are they still alive?_

_And the answer?_

_Nothing. Only the sound of explosions and curses and crying._

_I can hear only this battle. And it sounds like hate._

* * *

><p><em>Until I hear something else, something horrifying and exciting and painful.<em>

_I hear _her, _and everything else dulls and fades into nothingness. Images of Sirius flicker across my mind. Because she's _here. _And this is my chance to make her pay._

_I can't see her face, but the taunting, shrill voice is unmistakable, and all my senses seize up. I knew she would be here. There was a part of me that wanted to find her. But I am still surprised to find her so close by, so definitely real._

_I have dreamt about this day for months, but to hear her in real life is enough to make my chest stab and memories blur. The cackling echoes down the corridors until I forget that there is a war on. I forget that the castle walls are crumbling. I forget that there are curses flying and fires burning and people screaming. I forget everything. Until in my mind, there is nothing but her cruel laughter and the determined thud of adrenaline in my blood._

_Without really noticing, My feet run faster, footsteps pounding, darting round curses of light with clumsy movements. I know how reckless I am being, Mum's voice and Harry's voice and Dad's and George's and everyone's... all ringing in my head like a frantic warning bell. Slow down. Look after yourself. Keep safe. Keep safe. Keep safe._

_But it all seems so unimportant, so irrelevant, when I know that Bellatrix Lestrange is just around the corner, when I know that I could finish her off now. Punish her for what she did to Sirius and the Longbottoms and all the nameless others. Make her sorry._

_My breathing hitches as I whirl round the corner and spot her duelling with a couple of the boys from the Ravenclaw quidditch team, screaming curses in her shrill, mocking tone. I can't focus on them through the blurs of light, and the constant explosions, but I can see enough to tell who is winning._

_The boys can sense it too, because in every curse they throw, they become a little more defeated and I recognise genuine fright on the younger's face. I know his brother as a seventh year NEWT student, but even he looks shaken and uncertain. Lestrange is slowly forcing them backwards and I can see that they are going to end up cornered. _

_I know I have to run in and help, but my mind is spinning and all I can think about is how close she is. _

_I could kill her in just a few seconds._

* * *

><p><em>I think of how long Bea and I have planned for this. How much work we have done, since that morning in fourth year, when I told her I wanted revenge on Lestrange.<em>

_I think of the nights in the dormitory spent reciting spells while the others slept._

_I think about the evenings training with the DA._

_I think about all those times that we duelled with Slytherins together in the past, at midnight meetings, or in the corridors between lessons. _

_Compared to that this all seems so real. So brutally real._

_We were only pretending, back then... weren't we?_

_Playing soldiers. _

_I was never fighting to kill._

_I could never kill someone... could I? _

_But it dawns on me that this could just be the day that I have to decide._

* * *

><p><em>I swallow my doubts and try to say the words, but they come out wrong, and instead of the green jet of light I planned, a red stunning spell richochets out of my wand and hits the wall opposite. It blasts off a small chunk of stone, rebounding and nearly hitting Hannah Abbott. Her eyes widen in surprise as she stumbles, and she comes so close to the streak of light that I become sickeningly glad that I did not send a killing curse. <em>

_I imagine her lying there on the stone floor, unmoving._

_It is enough to make me feel physically ill. I wait for the reaction with dread, does Abbot know how close she nearly was to dying?_

_And then I realise that I could be just as close- How long can a person stand in the middle of a battle before they get hit?_

_Not long._

_And I need to fight. Like I came here to do._

_No sooner have I thought this, than one of the Ravenclaw boys behind me shouts a warning and automatically I duck, feeling the heat of a curse racing over my head. I turn to find Lestrange pointing her wand at me. _

_But it's not like they say- nothing slows down, there is no miraculous split second decision that I make. Instead life seems to speed up, and I am rooted to the spot as Lestrange laughs. Her eyes glittering cruelly. And I can't think of anything but the fact that this woman is the reason Sirius is dead. _

_This woman tortured Neville's parents into insanity. She murdered Dobby. Attacked Hermione._

* * *

><p>"<em>Is the little blood traitor going to fight?" She whines, her voice high pitched and pitiless.<em>

_And I can't move. I simply gape in shock, because I can hardly believe that she has the nerve. And I feel like throwing up, because I know that she is proud of every single thing she did to those people._

_I choke back my fear and send a weak slashing curse straight at her face. I hold my breath, avoiding her gaze, as I send another hex._

_It seems ridiculous that I have spent so many long months hating Lestrange, and now that I've finally been given my chance, I can't even look her in the eye. But this doesn't feel like I thought it would._

_Lestrange laughs a little louder and blocks them easily with her wand, returning another three curses effortlessly. Dread grows as I realise I am way out of my depth, and I know that it was childish to think I would be able to fight her. _

_This is not how it was supposed to be._

_But Bea and I had been stupidly optimistic, and as the jets of light soar at me I remember that I have to do something _now. _I wave my wand desperately and manage to produce a feeble shield charm, which shimmers thinly around me. The spells hit it like a physical punch. And it all feels so real. I am fighting for my life. And unless I have help, I am going to lose._

"_Help me!" I yell at the Ravenclaws, who have frozen watching us. The older one nods at me briefly before sending a flurry of curses at Lestrange._

_His younger brother, whom I recognise as a chaser, joins in, although his spells are clumsier and I can see his hand shaking. He can't be more than fourteen._

_But then I realise that I sound like my mother and age shouldn't matter. Looking at the situation now, that boy is probably going to save my life._

_And I make a promise to myself that I won't let him lose his._

* * *

><p><em>And so we fight.<em>

_And all the while I try to hide the fact that I am petrified and my voice is shaking and my feet are clumsy and I can't really think straight because of the buzzing in my ears and the repeated realisation that this is my _one chance_._

_My only chance._

_And I think of everything Bea taught me. The lists of spells to use in defence. Spells to attack. Spells to heal. Spells to hurt. Spells to help. Spells to harm. There were so many spells._

_But now, when I need them most, I can't think of enough of them. I can only send out a couple of beginners curses, because my head is too full of the whispered questions._

_Where are my family? Are they hurt? Has Harry found what he was looking for? And When will this be over? Please let this be over soon. Please please please._

_And then there is a louder voice in my mind, shouting over that, a dark mantra thundering round and round in my ear drums. _Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.

_And I am trying so hard to ignore it and it is taking me all of my energy just to remember how to going, keep moving, keep dodging, keep the shield up, just so that I can stay alive._

_And as the chaser-boy gives me a small, scared grin, I try not to let the terror show on my face._

_And I try to smile back as I send another stunner at Lestrange. And we fight. And fight. And fight. and there is nothing more to it. Nothing more than the panic and fear deep in my chest. Nothing more than the clumsy movements and near misses. Nothing more than Bellatrix screaming, laughing as she slowly forces us backwards._

_Nothing more than two screaming words in my ear. _

* * *

><p><em>And so it goes on. An endless game, that stretches for days, months, years. As I wait. Wait for the end. Wait for something to change. Wait for someone to help.<em>

_I see the older Ravenclaw thrown against the hard stone wall. I see the younger boy stumble backwards. And as I try to keep fighting I am still waiting and waiting and waiting for someone to help._

_I don't know how long it takes me to realise that nobody else is coming._

* * *

><p><em>It seems so hopeless, so pitiful that after all these months of fighting, it will end so soon.<em>

_That after all those sacrifices, we will not win. _

_And something in this makes me angry, and for the first time I feel power stir in my chest. _

_This is how duelling is supposed to feel._

_Automatically, I take a double step left and slice my wand arm. It sends out a violent slash of blue, that makes Lestranges laugh fall a little higher, her eyes grow a little wider._

"_Muggle loving scum!" She screeches and I try and ignore the way the words grate on my ears. "You wouldn't want to end up the same way as my blood traitor cousin would you?" _

_She laughs callously, but there is no mirth in her eyes and I duck as she sends a particularly vicious purple curse._

_My heart is racing so much that replying seems impossible, so I send a shaking stinging hex at her head._

"_Ooh dear" Hisses Lestrange as the spell misses. But her spitting scorn turns to delight as her eyes fix on something, or _someone _across the room._

"_Look, maybe Daddy's coming to help you." She crows, her smile growing again with cold satisfaction. "Looking a bit worse for wear today, isn't he?"_

_Panic tumbles in my chest and I am suddenly as cold as December ice. I glance over my shoulder but I see any sign of Dad through the pairs of fighters and in the split second it takes me to look I feel the force of a spell hit me. It is like lead running through my veins, and suddenly I can't move even an inch._

_My eyes widen in horror as Lestrange strides towards me and I realise what I've done. She leans so close, I can feel her cold breath on my cheek. _

"_Oops." She whispers right in my ear. "I lied. Daddy isn't here."_

_She pauses for a moment, stepping back to look me full in the face. _

"_I suppose, I'll have to kill you instead then." She says, and her voice betrays no emotion, no remorse, no guilt of any kind. _

_I inwardly flinch as she lifts her wand, but my feet are still rooted to the floor, my muscles paralysed even as my brain is screaming, screaming_, _screaming_.

_And I see the green flash of light and I know that this is the end. _

* * *

><p><em>And then suddenly I am knocked aside in a bundle of scarlet robes and I see the curse intended for me bounce across the corridor to hit a blonde man with a deadly accuracy.<em>

_I fall hard onto the stone floor, at exactly the same time as the man across from me, Bellatrix's victim, but he does not move again._

_I feel my heart hammering and I gasp for oxygen as whoever saved me jumps back up again. I search for an identity to the rescuer, and recognise the messy blond hair with a jolt._

_I can't help but smile at how much I've missed Bea in the few months since she left Hogwarts. And though there is a part of me that is terrified of her getting hurt here, Dying here, I know I have never been more relieved to see my best friend._

_She pulls me to my feet, and my mind reels with shock and surprise and worry and amazement as I stare at her. Until I catch sight of the sprawled figure behind her and remember what just happened._

_I see the man that died, the man that took the curse intended for me, and I suddenly can't remember how to breathe._

_Dread spins in my chest, until I hear Bellatrix shriek in anger. And then I know that whoever just died, right in front of me, was a friend of hers. And though we never met, that makes him an enemy of mine. And I can't help but feel relieved at the fact that his life just ended._

_And even as I think it, I despise myself a little for being so heartless._

_But when Bea gives me a grin, I do my best to block out the thoughts and instead turn back to Lestrange, whose smile is filled with malice._

_She is angrier than I have ever seen her, and her eyes have become so wide that she looks quite deranged. _

_I shoot off a few spells, as I spread away from Bea, dodging the hexes that Lestrange has begun to throw with terrifying energy._

_Bea sends off two jinxes of her own in return, and I place a shield charm over her as Lestrange retaliates. _

_And then I send attacking spells while Bea defends. And we keep it up._

_And my heart is beating a little faster, and my hand is shaking a little more, but this doesn't really feel so different from every other duel I've done._

_And the fear is fading because I have a friend at my side and this is something I'm good at and I don't have to worry so much about the rest of my family because now I'm helping them. I'm fighting too._

_And I feel stronger and each curse I send makes the worry disappear a little more, until I can't feel anything at all and I can only concentrate on sending off the right curse, aiming at the right person._

_And I am actually smiling now and Lestrange has stopped laughing and her eyes are cruel and Bea is blocking all the hexes she sends. The younger Ravenclaw has struggled to his feet to send a few more curses and I can't help but feel proud of him, even though I don't know anything about him. And everything seems to be going right for a minute or so. For a blissful minute. I really believe that we can win this._

* * *

><p><em>Reality comes back with the sound of breaking glass and a hairy black leg reaching through the window. Eight milky eyes peer through the empty pane, causing a few nearby duellers to scatter, and even Lestrange falters for a second. <em>

_The Ravenclaw chaser bravely shoots a stunning spell at it and I mimic him as Bea keeps up the shield. One curse hits the spider straight in the eye and I watch as it reels away from the window, squealing in agony, and waving its long legs grotesquely. _

_I breathe a sigh of relief and turn back to where Bea is struggling to hold up defence against Lestrange. I lift my wand to send a curse, when there is an appalling crash from above and I realise that there are spiders on the upper floor as well. And then there is an explosion that knocks me backwards off my feet and the Ravenclaw is screaming and Bea is suddenly gone from my side and chunks of ceiling are raining down and the corridor is engulfed in smoke and darkness._

* * *

><p><em>It takes a while for my jumbled mind to make sense of the turmoil. There is dust in my eyes and in my hair and in my lungs. My head is pounding but something is telling me that I have to move. I have to get back on my feet again.<em>

_I crawl on my hands and knees until I can find a supporting wall, and then I push myself up, leaning against the stone for support. There's a deep cut on my arm and my ankle hurts when I walk, but I am one of the lucky ones. The young Ravenclaw chaser I was fighting with is unconscious and nearly completely buried under rubble. I do my best to pull him free, until I see the tangled mess of his leg, and I realise that there is no way he will be able to walk. He's too heavy for me to carry but I can't leave him here, and I'm panicking because I promised myself that I'd protect him but there's no way I can do this. No way that I can do this on my own._

_I am blissfully comforted from my panic, when I hear someone call my name, and I remember that I am _not _alone. I scramble over to the source of the noise, where I last saw Bea. To my relief, I find her lying on the floor, trapped under a statue, but relatively unharmed. Not trusting myself to levitate it safely, I push the stone centaur off her, and it rolls with a clunk across the floor, cracking as it hits the wall .I pull Bea to her feet, ignoring the throbbing from my ankle, leading her over to the injured chaser with hurried explanations._

_She nods and helps me clear the rubble off his injured leg. Around us everyone is stirring and I can see that those on the other side of the blast have already begun to duel again._

_There is no sign of Lestrange, but I know that we can't stay here long. Bea seems to have the same feeling, as she grows impatient with clearing the rubble, and instead desperately drags the boy out from under the pile, biting her lip at his murmurs of pain._

_When he's clear from the debris, we pick him up between us, and Bea leads the way through the wreck, searching for a safe place to heal him._

_There are more and more people coming through now, some running in opposite directions, others fighting, many injured. Curses are flying around with no target, and I am almost knocked into a green jet of light as a man pushes past us yelling "ROOKWOOD!". _

_The voice sounds familiar, but by the time I have turned round, the crowds have covered his back, and I have no choice but to carry on forward. I glance at Bea in worry because it is too dangerous to go on like this, and she nods with a sigh, understanding. By an unspoken agreement, I lift the Ravenclaw, until I am carrying him completely, leaving Bea free to cast a shield around us. The boy in my arms is far too light._

_I see a quieter corridor on my left, and I hurry my pace, until I am almost running. Across the corridor I see Ron and Hermione arguing, and I want to call out to them, but there is something awful in my brother's face and I know instinctively that something terrible has happened. _

_I want to stop, because I have to know, but my feet won't stop moving past the blur of the rubble and the crowds and the curses, and Harry and Hermione are dragging Ron in the opposite direction without even noticing me and I am too dazed to form words. And then I notice the tears on Hermione's cheeks, and the hollow look in harry's eyes and my heart drops and I am the more scared than I have been all night. More scared than I have ever been in my life._

_But Bea is pulling me forwards, oblivious to what might have happened, and I follow her, my thoughts flickering with panic and fear._

_And then they are out of sight, and I am being lead down the corridor that Hermione and Harry just came from and I am still carrying the Ravenclaw and I am even more scared because his skin looks too pale and I can't hear him moaning anymore._

_And his leg is bleeding and bleeding still and I can smell the sickly coppery smell and my head is spinning and Bea is still trying to keep up the shield and I am staggering now and there is so so much blood and my robes are soaked with crimson now and I can feel that it's still warm against my skin even though the limp figure in my arms is growing colder and colder._

_I lower him down into a niche in the corridor, where the suits of armour usually stand and Bea takes over, peeling back his cloak from the wound on his leg and murmuring healing spells with her wand._

_I stand back, helpless, and try to look anywhere but at the mess of his leg. The entire lower calf has been ripped, the flesh missing to the bone. His foot looks twisted and I get the sickening feeling that even with a trained healer, there's no way he would ever be able to walk again._

* * *

><p><em>Guilt and misery bubble in my chest and I stare instead at the wall opposite, where there is another identical niche.<em>

_And then I find and empty pair of eyes staring back at me._

_I choke on a lungful of air, my mouth filled with the taste of fear._

_It's a body, that has been left, or rather hidden, safe from curses and creatures. It's a boy, older than me, but with the same flame red hair. He is wearing bright robes, but I can see a crimson stain in one corner. The boy, the body, has periwinkle blue eyes that are all too familiar. And it's the smile- that smile- that starts me screaming._

_And then I can't stop. And Bea has turned away from the Ravenclaw and is instead staring at me panicked as I scream and scream and scream. And she frantically asks what's wrong, until she sees _him _and then she's hugging me even though I can feel her shaking._

_And all the while I can feel his lifeless gaze watching me, and that makes me scream even more, until I'm choking and crying and I can't think straight. And I know that I can't stay here but I can hardly think past the panic and the horror and I'm screaming because it all makes a sickening sense- The man- Percy- shouting, Hermione crying, Ron's face, Harry coming from _this _passage way. They knew._

_I scream because I'm terrified, and horrified and petrified. And I scream because I think a part of me has come loose and I can't quite remember how to stop._

_But most of all I scream because there is a corpse of my brother that won't stop smiling at me._

_I am still screaming when the blackness bears down. _

* * *

><p>When I open my eyes, I am lying on a faded grey sofa, in the living room of Andromeda Black.<p>

I wonder how long I have been stuck in my memories, but the darkness outside gives nothing away, and there is no clock to tell me the answer.

My thoughts are shaking and disconnected, my mind still replaying the nightmares of my recollections.

The living room feels like a trap. The smoke from the fire smells like a corridor exploding. The candlight flickers like a curse in a battle. The voices from upstairs, Teddy and Andromeda, they sound different in my ears. They sound like screaming.

And myself?

I see a stranger. Tired. Lost. Her voice sounds like crying, even though there have been no tears since the funerals. And her breath sounds like fire, her skin a pale ghostly white.

She seems trapped in this world of the living. An outsider.

Most of this girl died in that battle two years ago.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I can't believe I have left it so late to update! I am tremendously sorry and I hope you all had a good Christmas. This chapter was longer than usual but there was also quite a lot of flash back. Hopefully I did an alright job of writing the battle, but any criticism is welcome, and positive reviews would also be great, so please REVIEW! Thanks for reading.**

**Shell x**


	7. Glow

**Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognise from the books or film. **

"_**Sometimes people are beautiful.  
>Not in looks.<br>Not in what they say.  
>Just in what they are."<br>― **__Markus Zusak, __I Am the Messenger_

I sit on the sofa for a few minutes, closing my eyes to block out the room. My thoughts waver and my mind won't stay still, but I force myself to calm down. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I try to let go of the memories, but my head is still filled with Fred's face, blocking out all other logical thoughts. I screw my eyes tighter closed, trying to hide the images in my head. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I don't know how long I sit there, concentrating on nothingness. I sit there until everything fades and I can't think of anything, anything at all. It could be seconds, minutes, days. It doesn't really seem to matter.

Why should it?

* * *

><p>The world only starts to move again, when someone enters the room, and I am brought back to life as Teddy throws himself against my legs with a happy cry. I saw him only a week or so ago, but he changes so much each day that I feel like I haven't seen him in a lifetime.<p>

Today his hair is a vivid purple that clashes with his colourful clothes. He has freckles covering his face and has chosen bright green eyes. They remind me all too much of Harry, which I know is definitely deliberate on Teddy's part. He went through a phase a few weeks ago of copying everything about Harry. It was sweet but unnerving to see. Like Harry had a son.

Just the thought makes my head whirl, with the future. It all seems so vast, so so distant. We're decades away from that yet. I could never look after my own child. I could be so responsible for someone else. Never have someone so entirely dependent on me. Could I?

I look away from the piercing green and smile instead at the cheery grin on his face, letting him clamber onto my knee. Smiling at Teddy is an automatic reflex, and I do it without realising, but I notice the way it feels unfamiliar, my mouth not quite used to twisting into the right shape. I can't remember the last time I smiled properly, but Teddy has something, an energy, that makes me feel lighter than I have in weeks.

"Red!" He squeals in greeting, grabbing my hair and wrapping it around his fingers. "Red! Red! Red!"

I give him a hug in return, I've missed him.

When I look around I see that Andromeda has entered the room as well, carrying a bag of Teddy's things. She sits down softly on the edge of one of the sofas, watching her grandson with a fond smile. In this bright room, with Teddy laughing, the resemblance between her and her sister seems less. Her hair is not black, but a softer brown and streaks of silver grey are beginning to show through. She is as tall, but though she possesses the same patrician beauty, her face is kinder than her sister's, softer.

"Harry here?" Teddy asks suddenly, bouncing on my lap, looking over my shoulder, as if I might have hidden him somewhere. "Harry! Red! Harry! Red!" he chants, his childish voice getting higher and higher until it turns into excited burbling.

"Harry's not coming today," I tell him, trying not to let the guilt show on my face. "We're going to Luna's."

Teddy's face falls at the mention of Harry, but he soon decides that Luna isn't so bad, and starts to bounce once more, adding her name to his chanting song.

"Luna Lovegood?" Andromeda questions from across the room. The corner of her mouth twitches slightly as I nod.

"I thought you were staying at Grimmauld, with Harry?" She queries, her face torn somewhere between curiosity and surprise.

"Not today." I say and try to smile, but something in my throat makes the words falter and my attempt at bravado falls short.

Andromeda nods, and though she is clearly not satisfied with my answer, she does not press the issue.

"Are you feeling better now?" she asks instead, her gaze kind but unwavering. Her tone is concerned, but the slight frown on her face suggests that she is as worried for Teddy as for me.

I nod hastily, wanting to assure her that I can look after him, "It was nothing." I say. "I'm fine." But the lie bleeds through in my pitch and it is obvious that there is something not quite right.

My hands are still too fluttery, my voice too hollow, my face too pale. Nothing about me seems fine and I know that Andromeda can tell too. She doesn't say anything, but can sense that she doesn't quite believe me.

I don't blame her. I don't believe me.

The quiet weighs heavily down as she sorts through the bag of Teddy's things, a weary frown on her face. I imagine her opening the door to have me collapse. I realise that Andromeda must have had to levitate me into her sitting room. I must seem a wreck.

I cough, embarrassed and she looks up from her packing, to regard me, critically for a moment.

"What's wrong?" She asks, her usually gentle voice taking on a more demanding, haughty tone, which resembles Narcissa. It rings with expectation, a clear reminder of her upbringing. She seems to hear it too- the Blackness in her tone, and her voice softens. "Can I help?"

I shake my head, staring determinedly at Teddy instead. He has calmed down now, tiredness overtaking his excitement. It's late for him, and his mumbling song has stopped. He's not quite asleep, but his eyes are drifting and he has curled up, his small hand still fiddling in my hair, making me wish I hadn't cut it so short.

"It's not the kind of thing that other people can fix." I say, quietly, and I am a little surprised at myself for speaking my mind so openly, with Andromeda Tonks, a near stranger, of all people.

Her striking features crease into a sad smile. "Don't I know the feeling." She says simply, and I know that she too is telling the truth. I think of her daughter, her husband, her cousin. I nod again, unable to say anything fitting. Andromeda looks away, picking up the bag of Teddy's things from the floor as I get to my feet, taking care not to jostle the drowsy boy in my arms.

I almost think we have finished the conversation, when Andromeda speaks again, her voice quieter this time and masked with something unrecognisable.

"You, at least, have the good fortune to know that your brother died a hero." She murmurs, and a different unspoken truth hangs in the air between us.

_Unlike my sister. _

The silence turns colder. Andromeda is watching me intently, but I look away unwilling to face the emotions in her gaze. Especially not when I see someone else's eyes.

Andromeda is sharp though, sharper than I give her credit for. "You thought I was her." She states, rather bluntly. There is no need to explain who _she _is. I struggle for words, and Andromeda smiles ruefully, her eyes sour. "I saw the look on your face when I opened the door, so don't lie."

I nod, rather meekly again, unsure whether she is expecting an answer, an explanation. She does not get one.

"Harry did the same thing. When he first met me, you know." She says. I don't know what to say to this either. Harry never mentioned it.

I don't know why.

* * *

><p>We stand there in tense silence. The past fluttering around the corners of the conversation. I think about leaving, but there is something captivating about Andromeda, something in her presence that makes me feel stronger. She has lived through so much.<p>

I can see it in her face and I marvel at how she manages to smile through it.

I find myself wondering if she feels the same grief I do every day.

I wonder if she still dreams about her husband. Or imagines hearing Sirius's voice talking to her at night. I wonder if she thinks of her daughter every time she sees Teddy. I wonder if she imagines their faces, when she sees strangers in the street, and if she ever has to run back and check, just to make sure it wasn't them. I wonder if she ever pretends, that it never happened, if she ever tells herself that they have just gone away, that they'll be back sometime soon.

I wonder whether she still thinks of herself as a mother, as a wife. Even when the other half to that relationship is never coming back.

How could anyone smile through all that?

* * *

><p>And then a different thought strikes me, and I find myself wondering if she ever misses her sister, like I miss Fred.<p>

I wonder if there is a part of Andromeda, however tiny, that wishes she could talk to her sister just for a little while. A part that wishes she could see her one last time.

It seems hard to imagine, but I wonder if Lestrange might have once been a good person, before she spent too long in Grimmauld Place, surrounded by predjudice and cruelty and dark magic. She must have once had a human side. There must have been a time, once when she wasn't so heartless, so cold, so ruthless.

I wonderif once, as a child, she might have played with her sisters, or looked after them, or told them her secrets. I wonder if she ever loved them. I think she must have. Once.

I look at Andromeda's lined face and wonder if she ever thinks about that. But she gives nothing away.

But she is right, I realise - I am lucky. Fred was brave and good. Bea was kind and honest. I have never had to question that. I have never had to feel guilty about loving them.

I suppose that was always taken for granted. In Andromeda's position, I can't imagine how it would feel. Can you hate someone so much and still miss them a little? Can you lose everyone you have and still have the courage to go on?

* * *

><p>Teddy stirs in my arms, and I am pulled from my mind, with the slight realisation that Andromeda did not lose <em>everyone<em>.

"I should go before it gets too late." I say, my voice no more than a mumble, as I open the door and step out into the snow.

I wrap the blanket tighter around Teddy, and turn back to Andromeda with a weak smile as she hands me the bag.

The old witch sighs. "You used to remind me of my cousin." She says quietly, and I hear the bitterness in her voice. I can't help but notice the use of the past tense.

I don't reply, because there is something strange in her tone, something hesitant and heavy and I can see her toying with the words in her head. I wait for her to speak.

She does not. Something snaps back in her gaze, and her eyes are back to kindness and steel.

"Look after him." She tells me, with a glance at the sleeping boy in my arms.

"Of course." I reply and something in my face seems to satisfy her, because she shuts the door without another word, and I am left out on the doorstep wondering what she meant to say.

* * *

><p>Teddy and I take the Knight bus to Luna's, paying for the fare with the few sickles in the pocket of Andromeda's bag. I don't know whether she meant them for me, but I promise myself that I will pay her back later.<p>

The bus drops us on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole, so close that I can see the chimney of the Burrow. I don't go any closer though, since Luna bought her own small cottage over the summer, just on the outskirts of the village. I try not to notice how relieved I am by this.

Teddy stirs as I trudge down through the wild garden, blinking blearily at me as he hears Luna's voice singing from inside.

"Luna?" I call, but the only answer is a warbling singing sound, so I push open the front door and put down the bag in the hallway. Teddy is more alert now, blinking in surprise at the brightly painted walls. He starts to gurgle out the names of the colours, his infant tongue stumbling on the words.

I am so absorbed in watching him, that I don't notice the singing stop, and Luna surprises me when she drifts up behind me, speaking softly, her voice dreamy as always.

"Your face looks nice when you watch him." She tells me, her eyes very wide and sincere. I half smile at how typical of Luna the comment is- vague but kind. I've missed her in the few weeks since I visited and it's reassuring to know that she hasn't changed a bit. Her blonde hair is wild around her face and she is wearing her usually hand-crafted jewellery, this time some strange wooden earrings and a bracelet made out of a brightly coloured feathers. There is a smudge of what looks like earth on one cheek, which I assume came from the wriggling tentacled potted plant in her arms.

She catches me looking at it and beams, mistaking my wariness for amazement. "It is lovely isn't it?" She says, stroking its stem, ignoring the way the surrounding tentacles stick themselves to her hand. "Neville sent it to me, yesterday as an early Christmas present. I'm trying to decide on a name for it."

She ponders this for a few seconds, before shaking her head, in a silent conversation with herself. She places the plant on a windowsill, taking a few steps back to squint her eyes at it, before adjusting the angle. I try to look appropriately admiring as she turns to me, but Teddy seems unimpressed by herbology and begins squawking for attention from Luna, distracting her from the plant-creature.

"Teddy!" She cries delightedly, as she turns to face him with such a surprised smile, that he giggles happily.

He reaches out for her, his small arms grabbing her hair, her brightly coloured clothes with an excited cry of "Lu-lu!"

Luna lifts him from me, spinning him around above her head and laughing at the little chuckles he makes.

I watch them, a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I try to ignore the emptiness in my arms, the sudden loss. Because together they look so happy, so carefree that it seems wrong to change it.

Luna whirls him down to the ground, where he totters, dizzy for a moment, still emitting little gasping burbles of laughter. He finally loses his balance, collapsing on the floor in a heap. He looks up at Luna dazedly, with a huge smile that quickly becomes a yawn.

"You're tired, poppet." Luna says, tapping his nose with a finger as he reaches out towards her to be picked up. "Better hurry to bed before the purfles come to nest in your hair." Teddy blinks confusedly at her, his green eyes wide.

"They like tired hair best." Luna adds, as though this clears everything up.

Teddy reaches a small hand out to pat his hair, considering the problem with a tiny frown. He stifles a tiny yawn again, before turning to me with a sudden grin, reminding me of his mother with a pang. Teddy crinkles his eyes shut, his tongue poking out in concentration, just as I remember Tonks doing at the dinner table, all those years ago in Grimmauld Place.

Just as hers did, Teddy's appearance begins to change and I watch, fighting a laugh, as all his hair shrinks until his head is entirely bald. "No nest." Teddy says, determinedly, looking around for approval.

"I liked the purple," Luna muses thoughtfully. "But this is definitely safer."

Teddy nods happily, before turning to me with a worried glance.

"It looks good Ted," I say smiling at him. "But let's get upstairs quickly, just in case."

He nods again, his eyes wide, before scampering upstairs to Luna's spare room. I follow him, surprised at the grin still on my face. It feels nice here, with Teddy and Luna.

The walls to our room are painted bright orange, reminding me of Ron's at the Burrow, although here the curtains a vibrant yellow. There is a woven rug across the floor, depicting strange magical creatures in bright patterns and colours. It's cheerful, and very Luna-esque, but the room is scarcely furnished, with nothing to fill the space but a small cot, a single bed, and a wardrobe.

But as I draw the curtains, I can't help but let out a peaceful sigh, and the grief seems to have shrunk a little, until it is no more than a dull ache in my chest. This place is beautiful and despite the fact that it is not my home, it feels more homely. I think I am simply glad to be out of Grimmauld Place, and although I feel bad to admit it, a part of me is glad to be away from Harry too. There are still niggling worries, in the back of my mind, questioning whether he is safe. But I push them aside, focusing instead on Teddy.

He's too tired to say anything, as I change him into his pyjamas and it's obvious that despite his sleep on the Knight bus, he is exhausted. I feel a little guilty for keeping him up, but he seemed happy enough, and as I settle him in the cot, and he lies down without any fuss, murmuring to himself quietly.

"Night night Red." He mumbles and I stroke his hairless head with a smile.

"Night Teddy." I say, and I am as close to happy as I have been in a long time. Before I leave I find the baby monitor, one of Luna's muggle curiosities and place it by the bed, pocketing the other reciever. I linger a little in the doorway, wanting to watch him just a little longer. He looks more like Remus when he's relaxed, gentler, more peaceful.

I am making my way across the landing, when I hear a childish murmur coming from my monitor.

"Night Mum. Night Dad." Teddy's little voice whispers and then there is a little sleepy sigh and the sound of blankets rustling as Teddy rolls over. I stand frozen on the landing, my heart pattering in sadness and surprise.

I stand there for a little while. Listening to quiet mumblings and crackling static coming from the monitor in my pocket, wondering whether Teddy understands that he is an orphan.

I think a part of me hopes he doesn't. I was happier before I knew about the deaths.

Ignorance is bliss they say.

And Teddy deserves bliss. At least for now.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Going through a low time right now, so to all those who are still reading, I can't say much more than thank you, I really really appreciate it and please review. I know that this is not a very strong chapter, and I tend to be better at writing sadness and angst, but I'll leave it up to you to decide and (hopefully) review. Ta muchly **

**Shell x**


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